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MONKSBRIDGE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


MAROTZ 

DROMINA 

SAN  CELESTINO 

MEZZOGIORNO 

HURDCOTT 

FAUSTULA 

LEVIA  PONDERA 

OUTSIDERS— AND  IN 

A ROMAN  TRAGEDY 

GRACECHURCH 


MONKSBRIDGE 


BY  JOHN  AYSCOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF  “GRACECHURCH,”  “SAN  CELESTINO,”  ETC., 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


LONGMANS,  GREEN,  AND  CO, 

FOURTH  AVENUE  & 30TH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 
1914 


PR 

(oQ03 

.£  3 

tAC 

i/yits 


Copyright,  igr4,  by 
LONGMANS,  GREEN  & CO. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  I 

On  the  morning  of  June  ioth,  1864,  the  post  arrived 
while  we  were  at  breakfast,  and  my  mother  at  once 
perceived  that  one  of  her  letters  was  from  an  unknown 
correspondent.  As  good  news  seldom  came  her  way,  it 
made  her  vaguely  uneasy;  but,  being  a brave  creature, 
and  wise  too,  she  opened  the  letter  at  once  to  know 
the  worst  it  might  contain. 

We  all  went  on  eating  our  bread  and  butter  without 
watching  her,  but  very  soon  a little  cry  of  surprise  that 
did  not  suggest  pain  or  anxiety  made  us  look  up 
quickly. 

“ Children,”  she  said,  “ I’ve  had  a legacy ! ” 

We  were  thoroughly  taken  aback.  Of  course,  we 
knew  that  other  people  did  occasionally  inherit  money 
and  land,  goods  and  chattels,  but  it  had  never  occurred 
to  any  of  us  that  such  things  could  come  our  way. 
Even  when  our  father  was  alive  we  had  been  poor 
enough;  since  his  death,  nearly  five  years  before,  we 
had  had  about  as  little  to  live  upon  as  any  four  people 
in  the  rank  of  gentry  ever  had.  From  the  day  of  his 
marriage  my  poor  father  had  always  been  talking  of 
insuring  his  life,  but  he  never  did  it;  and  his  widow  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


2 


[CH.  I 


three  children  had  less  than  a hundred  a year  for  rent, 
food,  clothes,  and  education. 

“ A legacy ! ” cried  Peterkin.  “ How  much  ? ” 

My  sister  Sylvia  looked  as  if  she  thought  this  quite 
a vulgar  question.  She  was  seventeen,  and  had  strictly 
correct  ideas.  Being  her  twin,  I was  not  really  more 
than  twenty  minutes  younger,  but  I had  not  Sylvia’s 
decisive  views,  and  felt  scarcely  so  old  even  as  Peter- 
kin,  who  was  barely  fifteen. 

“ Well,”  said  our  mother,  “ it’s  a house,  and  there’s 
the  interest  of  six  thousand  pounds ” 

“ That’s  three  hundred  a year  at  five  per  cent.,” 
observed  Peterkin. 

“ It  doesn’t  say  it’s  at  five  per  cent.,”  Mamma  ob- 
served cautiously,  looking  up  and  down  the  letter  in 
vain  for  any  mention  of  the  rate  of  interest. 

“ Who  left  it  ? ” asked  my  brother,  demanding  an- 
other lump  of  sugar  from  Sylvia,  as  if  he  knew  we 
could  afford  it  now. 

Sylvia  gave  it  him — not  in  her  fingers,  as  he  sug- 
gested, but  with  the  sugar-tongs — frowning  a little 
as  if  to  reprove  his  too-eager  snatching  at  the  fruits  of 
wealth. 

“ That,”  my  mother  answered,  “ is  the  funny  part 
of  it.  It  comes  from  Uncle  Stapleton.” 

We  had  heard  of  him.  He  was  Sir  Stapleton 
Drumm,  of  Drumm  Hall,  and  was  an  uncle  of  our 
mother’s  mother.  He  had  only  seen  his  grand-niece  on 
rare  occasions,  and  had  been  much  annoyed  by  her 
marrying  a “ curate  with  blue  eyes  ” without  deigning 
to  explain  what  coloured  eyes  curates  ought  to  have. 
We  knew  that  the  old  gentleman  was  dead,  for  our 
mother  had  seen  some  notice  of  it  in  a newspaper,  but 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  i] 


3 


it  certainly  had  not  occurred  to  her  or  to  us  that  any 
such  result  as  this  would  accrue  from  it. 

“ ‘ The  interest  of  six  thousand  pounds,’  ” said 
Mamma,  half  reading  from  the  letter,  and  half  talking 
aloud  out  of  her  own  head— “ ‘ of  six  thousand  pounds 
till  I marry  again.’  That’s  so  funny,  since  he  was  so 
cross  with  me  for  marrying  your  dear  father.” 

“ I suppose,”  remarked  Peterkin,  “ he  thought,  as 
you’d  married  the  wrong  man  once,  you  might  marry 
some  one  worse  next  time,  and  he’d  punish  you  if  he 
couldn’t  stop  you.” 

Mamma  laughed,  but  Sylvia  said,  “ Peterkin ! ! ! ” 
in  her  finest  manner. 

“ Well,  that’s  about  the  size  of  it,”  my  brother 
persisted. 

“ ‘ The  size  of  it.’  ” And  Sylvia  looked  as  if  no  legacy 
could  atone  for  a brother  who  used  such  expressions. 

“ I dare  say  it  is,”  said  Mamma ; “ Uncle  Stapleton 
was  a queer  old  man.” 

“ Let’s  hope  you  have  a dozen  great-uncles  all  just 
as  queer,”  said  Peterkin. 

“ He’s  the  only  one,”  said  Mamma.  “ If  I die  un- 
married I can  leave  the  six  thousand  pounds  to  you.” 

“To  me?”  asked  our  brother. 

“ No,  my  dear — among  you  all.  If  I do  marry, 
the  interest  is  to  be  divided  equally  between  you  three.” 

“ You’re  young  yet — and  there’s  Simon  Blowhard,” 
Peterkin  remarked  cheerfully,  to  annoy  Sylvia,  as  I 
quite  understood. 

It  did  annoy  her.  But  Mamma  only  laughed  again. 
Simon  Blowhard  was  an  elderly  widower,  whose  let- 
ters were  addressed  “ George  Boson,  Esq.”  He  sat 
behind  us  in  church  and  breathed  very  heavily,  espe- 


4 


MONICSBRIDGE 


[CH.  I 

cially  during  the  sermon ; once  he  had  followed  us  down 
the  church -yard  with  a pocket-handkerchief,  really 
dropped  by  Sylvia,  which  he  presented  to  our  mother 
with  great  ceremony  and  a heightened  complexion. 

“ Now  he’ll  think  you’re  an  heiress,  Mugs,  and  speak 
up,”  Peterkin  declared  vivaciously. 

Sylvia  looked  unutterable  things,  but  said  nothing; 
she  was  tired  of  asking  in  what  language  “ Mugs  ” was 
a contraction  of  “ Mother.” 

Presently  we  learned  that  the  house  bequeathed  by 
Uncle  Stapleton  was  at  Monksbridge,  and  that  it  had 
a name,  being  called  Cross  Place. 

“ In  allusion,”  suggested  Peterkin,  “ to  the  temper 
of  the  testator.” 

“ That,”  said  our  mother,  “ is  ungrateful,  seeing 
he  has  left  it  to  us.” 

It  was  just  like  her  to  say  “ us  ” when  it  was  left 
simply  and  unconditionally  to  her. 

“ Cross  Place,”  said  Sylvia,  thoughtfully ; she  was 
thinking  of  Hampton  Place,  a mile  or  two  out  of  our 
town,  where  Lord  Coldhampton  lived. 

“ Reminds  one  of  Laurel  Place,”  observed  Peterkin, 
who  was  as  sharp  as  a needle,  and  followed  the  train 
of  our  sister’s  musings  with  perfect  accuracy. 

“ It  doesn’t  remind  me  in  the  least  of  Laurel  Place,” 
Sylvia  declared  warmly.  “ Laurel  Place  was  built  by 
Mr.  Sugger,  and  nothing  will  ever  make  it  look  older, 
or  as  if  anybody  but  a retired  grocer  lived  in  it.  And 
the  laurels  won’t  grow  up,  and  it  has  bow  windows,  and 
it’s  in  the  town — Grange  Road  is  in  the  town.” 

Peterkin  was  delighted.  Our  pleasures  were  few, 
and  had  to  be  cheap;  it  cost  him  nothing  at  all  to 
tease  his  very  superior  sister. 


CHAPTER  II 


Three  months  afterwards  we  were  living  at  Cross 
Place,  and  there  was  nothing  whatever  about  it  to  re- 
mind us  of  Mr.  Sugger  and  his  juvenile  laurels  that 
time  could  not  age,  though  dust  might  stale,  and  a dry 
summer  was  apt  to  wither. 

“ It’s  just  the  right  size,”  Mamma  declared;  and  she 
would  have  said  the  same  had  it  been  half  as  big,  or 
twice  as  big  again. 

“What  for?”  asked  Peterkin. 

“ For  us,  of  course,”  said  Sylvia. 

“ For  four  hundred  a year,”  said  Mamma. 

We  really  had  four  hundred  a year.  For  there  was 
a bit  of  land  attached'  to  Cross  Place  that  was  let  off  at 
a pleasant  little  rental.  Sylvia  was  not  quite  content 
with  the  letting  off;  it  would,  she  felt,  be  more  digni- 
fied to  keep  it  in  hand;  but  she  liked  to  think  that  the 
dairyman  and  butcher  who  rented  it  were  our  tenants. 

“ The  tenantry,”  said  Peterkin,  “ shall  have  rejoic- 
ings when  I come  of  age.  Mr.  Melch  shall  present  an 
address  and  twenty-one  pats  of  butter,  and  Mr.  Kitney 
shall  present  another  and  a tribute  of  chops.” 

“ Peterkin,”  begged  his  mother,  “ do  leave  your  sis- 
ter alone.” 

Monksbridge  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  ugly  new 
town  where  we  had  lived  in  the  midlands ; it  was  very 
old,  and  very  staid,  with  a singularly  large  proportion 
of  houses  that  looked  as  if  they  defied  any  but  gentry 
to  live  in  them. 


5 


6 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  II 

A river  cut  the  little  town  in  two  unequal  halves ; or 
rather  on  one  side  of  it  lay  Monksbridge;  over  the 
bridge,  in  Wales,  was  Llanthamy.  The  river  (pro- 
nounced Tern)  was  the  Tham,  that  joined  the  lordly 
Dee  eight  miles  below  Monksbridge.  Monksbridge  is 
in  the  rich  and  aristocratic  Rentshire,  where  the  squires 
are  so  great  that  they  disdain  baronets,  until,  as  some- 
times happens,  they  become  baronets  themselves;  even 
then  they  merely  acquiesce  in  their  new  condition  as 
a temporary  measure — a brief  pause  on  the  way  to  a 
peerage. 

Our  big  man  on  the  Monksbridge  side  was,  when  we 
went  there,  Mr.  de  Braose,  of  Monkspark,  of  whom 
more  will  be  heard  in  due  time.  The  river  for  several 
miles  divided  his  territory  from  that  of  Lord 
Monksbridge,  who  had  originally  been  Sir  Silas 
Monk. 

Almost  the  first  person  who  called  told  us  all  about 
Sir  Silas,  and  his  odd  behaviour  in  taking  Monks- 
bridge for  his  title.  This  was  Mrs.  de  Braose,  of  Island 
Court,  who  landed  at  our  garden-steps,  and  would  have 
taken  us,  like  an  angel,  unawares,  had  she  not  sent 
on  a footman  to  ask  if  our  mother  was  at  home.  As 
it  was,  Sylvia  went  down  to  the  river  to  meet  and 
escort  her. 

“ My  dear,”  said  our  visitor,  disembarking,  “ I hope 
Mrs.  Auberon  will  excuse  my  taking  her  in  flank  in  this 
way.  But,  you  see,  I live  on  an  island,  and  it’s  much 
easier  and  pleasanter  landing  at  your  steps  than  rowing 
down  to  Bridge  Wharf  and  landing  there.  Living  on 
an  island,  one  has  one’s  stables  and  carriage  on  the 
mainland,  and  one  has  to  row  ashore  before  one  can 
drive  anywhere.  It’s  only  half  a mile  from  Bridge 


MONKSBRIDGE 


ch.  n] 


7 


Wharf  to  your  door,  and  that’s  a short  way  to  drive, 
but  too  far  for  me  to  walk.  I’m  rather  stout.” 

In  saying  so,  Mrs.  de  Braose  did  not  overstate  the 
case;  she  was  the  fattest  lady  of  her  height  Sylvia  had 
ever  seen,  but  her  stoutness  took  nothing  from  her 
dignity,  and  Mrs.  de  Braose  (pronounced  “ Brooze,” 
by  the  way)  looked  both  dignified  and  important. 

“ I should  think  it  must  be  delightful  to  live  on  an 
island,”  said  Sylvia. 

“ Should  you,  my  dear?  Well,  you  do,  you  know. 
But,  then,  England  doesn’t  belong  to  you,  and  my 
island  does  belong  to  me — I bought  it;  Sir  Silas  wanted 
to,  so  I cut  in  and  offered  five  hundred  more.  It  isn’t 
our  Dower  House,  Island  Court  isn’t.  But,  you  see, 
there  are  two  Dowagers  at  present;  I’m  Mr.  de 
Braose’s  mother,  and  his  uncle’s  widow,  Lady  Llant- 
wddwy,  is  alive  still — my  son  succeeded  his  uncle,  you 
know — so  she  reigns  at  Little  Park,  that’s  our  regular 
Dower  House;  and  when  he  married  I bought  Island 
Court.  These  are  pretty  rose-walks.  I like  to  pause 
and  admire  them — and  take  breath.  And,  being 
strangers,  you  may  as  well  know  who  your  visitors  are. 
Some  queer  folk  will  call,  I dare  say — we  have  all 
sorts  at  Monksbridge;  but  we’re  all  good  people,  and 
your  Mamma  will  soon  know  which  is  which.  My 
friend  the  Baroness  planted  these  rose-walks;  she  was 
quite  a gardener.  Is  this  your  mother  ? How  do  you 
do,  Mrs.  Auberon  ? I’ve  been  making  my  apologies  to 
your  daughter  for  boarding  you  in  this  manner. 
She’ll  make  my  excuses;  you  don’t  want  them  all  over 
again  from  me.” 

“ It’s  very  friendly  of  you  to  call  so  soon,”  said  my 
mother. 


8 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  II 

“ Well,  I hope  we  shall  be  friends.  Monksbridge  is 
friendly.  A little  place  at  the  world’s  end,  but  we’re 
all  very  fond  of  it  here.  I did  not  put  off  calling,  for 
I knew  the  place  was  left  to  you  all  furnished — and 
charming  furniture  too — so  that  you  would  not  take 
long  settling  in.  I knew  your  uncle  once,  but  he  only 
lived  a month  here.  He  made  the  place  very  nice,  and 
swore  he  should  live  here  for  ever,  because  the  neigh- 
bours at  Drumm  Hall  were  too  friendly.  But  when  we 
all  flocked  to  call  upon  him  he  wouldn’t  stand  it,  and 
went  off  in  a fine  pet.  I was  the  last  to  call,  and  he 
nearly  ate  me.  ‘ Do  you  want  anything  ? ’ he  asked 
me.  ‘Nothing  particular,’  I told  him;  and  he  said 
then  there  was  no  sense  in  my  coming.  ‘ We’re  too 
old  for  nonsense,’  he  declared,  and  that  wasn’t  very  civil 
to  a lady.  However,  it’s  a good  thing  for  you  he  came 
at  all,  for  he  had  a perfect  taste  in  furniture  and  pic- 
tures and  china  and  so  forth,  and  now  it’s  all  here  for 
you.  I’ll  sit  here,  if  you  please;  I call  this  my  chair, 
for  I used  to  be  here  constantly  when  my  friend  Bar- 
oness von  Trautwitz  had  the  place.  Sir  Stapleton  let 
her  have  it  dirt  cheap  on  condition  she  agreed  to  take 
a month’s  warning,  like  a kitchen-maid;  however,  she 
had  it  seven  years,  and  was  lucky  enough.  She  won’t 
find  herself  in  such  clover  at  Burgh  House.  Of  course 
she  hated  turning  out,  but  she’ll  call,  and  you’ll  find 
her  a good  creature.” 

“ I’m  sure,”  said  our  mother,  quite  guiltily,  “ I’m 
very  sorry  our  coming  should  have  been  such  an  incon- 
venience to  her.” 

But  Sylvia  looked  quite  prepared  to  ignore  any 
pretensions  the  Baroness  might  make  to  being  a 
victim. 


ch.  ii]  MONKSBRIDGE  9 

“ Mamma,”  she  observed,  “ she  had  Cross  Place  for 
seven  years ” 

“ For  an  old  song,”  said  Mrs.  de  Braose. 

Sylvia  liked  this  expression  much  better  than  “ dirt- 
cheap,”  and  adopted  it. 

“ For  an  old  song,  Mamma.” 

“ Yes,  but  seven  years  is  a long  time,”  said  my  dear 
mother,  “ and  I dare  say  she  got  very  fond  of  all  these 
things,”  looking  round  on  her  own  pictures  and  furni- 
ture, “ and  felt  as  if  she  were  parting  from  her  own 
household  goods.” 

Sylvia  looked  as  if  she  thought  this  great  nonsense, 
if  not  great  presumption,  on  the  part  of  this  Baroness; 
but  Mrs.  de  Braose  reached  out  a plump  and  very 
pretty  hand  and  patted  my  mother’s,  which  was  much 
prettier,  though  much  slimmer. 

“ My  dear,”  she  declared,  “ I’m  sure  you’ll  not  quar- 
rel with  Julia  von  Trautwitz.  And  she’s  an  excellent 
creature  in  spite  of  her  whim-whams.” 

“ Can  she  talk  English  ? ” asked  Sylvia,  anxious,  I 
suspected,  to  be  able  to  quell  the  Baroness  in  her 
mother-tongue. 

“ My  dear,  she  is  English — or  Welsh  rather;  of  a 
very  good  family — the  Llewellyns,  of  Clwd.  The  Baron 
was  only  her  husband.  He  was  a Bavarian  and  repre- 
sented his  Court  as  Minister  in  Sweden,  in  Bernadotte’s 
time;  that’s  why  she  makes  her  servants  call  her  Ex- 
cellency, which  is,  between  you  and  me,  great  nonsense. 
English  ambassadresses  drop  the  Excellency  when  they 
sink  into  private  life;  but  then,  English  ambassadresses 
don’t  sink  far.  So  you  think  you’d  like  to  live  on  an 
island  of  your  own!  You  must  come  and  see  mine. 
You  all  must.  It’s  a pretty  place,  and  the  house  much 


IO  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  n 

too  nice  to  be  left  to  the  ghosts.  They  don’t  trouble 
me,  and  servants  don’t  mind  them  either  if  you  give 
them  good  wages.  Lord  Monksbridge,  as  he  calls 
himself,  can’t  keep  his,  and  my  lady  always  pretends 
it’s  the  ghosts  at  Llanthamy  Castle;  but  that’s  all 
bosh,  for  we  know  his  old  father  built  ‘ the  castle  ’ — 
fancy  building  a castle  in  the  eighteenth  century,  my 
dear ! ” — and  here,  with  a singular  intuition,  Mrs.  de 
Braose  appealed  to  my  sister,  who  curled  her  very 
pretty  lips  slightly — “ and  there  ain’t  any  ghosts  in 
those  sorts  of  castles — spirits  enough,  if  all  we  hear 
is  true!  But  my  lady  has  a temper,  and  my  lord  is 
a skinflint;  servants  won’t  stand  the  combination.” 

“ Monksbridge,”  suggested  Sylvia,  who  knew,  I 
supposed,  as  much  about  it  as  I did,  “ is  not  an  old 
title.” 

“ It’s  as  old,  my  dear,  as  my  coachman’s  baby,  and 
that’s  nineteen  months,  as  I ought  to  know  who  am  his 
god-mother  and  gave  him  an  ugly  mug  (which  Provi- 
dence gave  him  before  me)  and  a spoon,  as  I dare  say 
he’ll  be  himself  if  he’s  like  Watkins.  Old,  my  dear! 
It’s  so  new  that  it  smells  of  paint,  like  the  coronets  on 
the  hot-water  cans — I do  assure  you,  Mrs.  Auberon, 
the  hot-water  cans  at  Llanthamy  Castle  all  have  coro- 
nets on  them ! ” 

“ And  why,”  asked  Sylvia,  deeply  interested,  “ didn’t 
he  take  the  title  of  Llanthamy  ? ” 

“ The  lord  knows,  my  dear — the  Lord  of  Llanthamy 
Castle,  I mean.  All  the  land  on  Monksbridge  side  is 
my  son’s  (except  River  Street  in  the  town,  the  new 
street  where  the  wool- factory  people  live),  and  all  the 
land  for  nine  miles  round.  River  Street  belongs  to 
Sir  Silas,  so  did  the  bit  where  the  New  Jerusalem 


MONKSBRIDGE 


ii 


CH.  Ii] 

stands  (he  gave  it  them  when  he  was  standing  against 
my  brother-in-law  for  Parliament)  ; and  one  or  two 
new  pot-houses  are  his,  the  Monk  Arms  and  the  Black 
Cow,  for  instance  (his  father  built  the  Monk  Arms 
when  he  got  his  shield  from  the  Heralds  College), 
and  this  man  had  the  Black  Cow  opened  when  he  got 
his  peerage  and  supporters — a black  cow  and  a white 
goose.  The  wool-carders  would  have  had  a White 
Goose  to  get  drunk  at  if  the  magistrates  hadn’t  refused 
another  licence.  His  taking  the  title  of  Monksbridge 
is  the  most  monstrous  thing.  But  my  son  only  laughs 
when  I talk  of  it,  and  says  after  all  he  has  Monks- 
park,  and  Sir  Silas  only  has  Llanthamy  Castle  where 
the  chimneys  all  smoke,  so  that  the  geese  are  as  black 
as  the  cows  over  them.  There  are  cows  and  geese 
carved  everywhere  at  Llanthamy  Castle,  and  some  say 
the  geese  are  the  image  of  Sir  Silas,  and  the  cows 
of  my  lady.” 

“ But  Monk  is  the  family  name,”  observed  Sylvia. 
“ I suppose  they’re  old  inhabitants  here,  though  the 
title  is  new?  ” 

“ That’s  just  what  you’re  meant  to  suppose.  This 
man’s  grandfather  was  a miner  in  South  Wales,  and 
his  name  was  Evans.  But  he  made  a great  fortune; 
his  son  doubled  it  every  ten  or  twenty  years,  and  died 
a millionaire.  He  came  into  the  world  Sammy  Evans, 
and  went  out  of  it  Sir  Samuel  Monk.  He  changed  his 
name  when  he  bought  the  property  over  there — in 
the  train,  I suppose,  when  he  came  to  take  posses- 
sion.” 

Mrs.  de  Braose  spoke  so  warmly  on  the  subject  of 
Sir  Silas  that,  when  the  housemaid  came  in  with  cards 
on  a salver,  and  my  mother  had  read  the  names  on 


MONKSBRIDGE 


12 


[CH.  II 


them,  she  almost  trembled  as  she  turned  to  her  visitor 
and  said  with  nervous  apology — 

“ Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge ! ” 

The  old  lady  laughed  very  cheerfully,  quite  un- 
moved at  the  announcement. 

“ Well,”  she  said,  “ you’ll  not  find  them  at  all  dan- 
gerous.” And  she  settled  herself  in  her  chair  as  though 
to  dispel  any  idea  of  her  shortening  her  own  visit  on 
account  of  their  arrival. 

“ The  footman  said,”  Hannah  almost  whispered,  “ I 
was  to  come  and  see  if  you  was  at  home,  Ma’am.  I 
said  I knew  you  was ; but  he  said  to  kindly  go  and  see.” 
All  this  was  fifty  years  ago,  and  I hope  Hannah  will 
be  forgiven  for  saying  “ you  was.”  She  did  not  dress 
fashionably,  nor  have  silver-backed  hair-brushes;  but 
she  was  an  excellent  servant,  and  lived  with  us  eighteen 
years,  till  her  marriage  with  a flourishing  carpenter,  at 
the  deliberate  age  of  forty. 

“ Yes,  we’re  at  home,”  said  my  mother,  who  never 
thought  of  herself  apart  from  Sylvia. 

“ They’re  very  good  people,”  Mrs.  de  Braose  re- 
marked when  Hannah  was  gone.  “ We’re  all  good 
people  here,  as  I told  you,  though  they’re  not  true 
Monksbridgers,  living  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  river.” 
“ I was  afraid  you  might  mind,”  said  my  mother. 

“ Me  mind ! We’re  au  mieux.”  And  she  nodded 
and  smiled  vigorously.  With  such  a short  neck  it  was 
quite  hard  to  understand  how  she  could  nod  at  all. 

When  Hannah  reappeared  with  the  new  visitors 
there  was  some  slight  parley  as  to  which  of  them 
should  enter  first.  My  lady  seemed  to  hold  back  for 
her  lord  to  go  before  her,  and  Mrs.  de  Braose  watched 
and  listened  delightedly. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


13 


CH.  Il] 

“ No,  my  lady,  no ! Do  you  precede,”  her  sharp 
ears  heard  him  beg.  “ I’m  not  Lord  Lieutenant  here 
— on  the  wrong  side  of  the  water,  you  know.” 

Mrs.  de  Braose  explained  to  us  later  on  that  Lord 
Monksbridge  was  Lord  Lieutenant  of  his  county,  and 
as  such  held  that,  representing  Her  Majesty,  he  could 
not  without  disloyalty  yield  the  pas  to  his  wife. 

Lady  Monksbridge,  with  meek  protest,  entered  first. 

“ Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge ! ” announced  Han- 
nah, who  knew  nothing  of  Lord  Lieutenants,  but  had 
scriptural  ideas  as  to  the  pre-eminence  of  man. 

Lady  Monksbridge  was  as  tall  and  lean  as  Mrs.  de 
Braose  was  short  and  fat,  and  her  dress  was  so  fash- 
ionable that  one  only  saw  the  bust  of  her  husband 
behind  her  crinoline.  Her  gown  was  of  royal-blue  silk, 
with  a Greek  Key  pattern  in  black  velvet  running  round 
the  flounces,  enormous  at  the  bottom  row,  and  narrow- 
ing to  the  waist.  I had  never  seen  the  Greek  Key 
pattern  before  except  in  stucco  round  a cornice. 

Lady  Monksbridge  was  about  fifty,  and  moved  in 
what  she  thought  a willowy  fashion — if  you  can  imag- 
ine a willow  in  a crinoline. 

My  lord  was  not  so  tall,  and  was  five  or  six  years 
older.  His  trousers  were  of  “ Shepherd’s  Plaid  ” — 
little  dazzling  squares  of  black  and  white,  about  the 
size  of  dice.  He  was  handsome  and  remarkably  clean 
— quite  unlike  a miner,  I thought.  All  the  top  of  his 
head  was  bald,  but  the  hair  at  one  side,  plentiful,  long, 
and  very  black,  was  drawn  over,  like  a lid,  and  covered 
up  the  bare  parts  except  when  he  stooped  to  pick  up 
Mrs.  de  Braose’s  card-case,  on  which  occasion  the  whole 
lid  lifted  and  fell  to  the  right  in  a painful  manner. 

After  having  shaken  hands  with  my  mother,  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


14 


[CH.  II 


after  Sylvia  had  been  introduced,  our  visitors  turned 
to  Mrs.  de  Braose. 

“ You’ll  not  expect  me  to  get  up,”  she  observed 
with  smiling  affability.  “ Once  down  I have  to  be 
hauled  up.” 

“ It’s  wonderful,”  Sylvia  remarked  to  us  afterwards, 
“ how  a woman  with  simply  no  neck  can  bow  as  she 
does.  Lady  Monksbridge’s  neck  is  as  long  as  a goose’s 
— one  of  the  family  geese — but  she  can’t  bow — she 
ducks.” 

“ Gooses,  you  mean,”  suggested  Peterkin. 

“ And  Lord  Monksbridge,”  added  Sylvia,  ignoring 
him,  and  slightly  raising  her  voice,  “ bows  like  a man 
in  a shop.  Any  well-bred  butler  could  teach  him.” 

“ You  never  saw  a butler  in  your  life,”  said  Peter- 
kin.  We  hadn’t  returned  Mrs.  de  Braose’s  call,  or 
Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge’s,  then. 

“ Perkin,”  pleaded  our  mother,  “ do  leave  your  sis- 
ter alone.”  (She  never  called  me  his  sister.)  “ I was 
so  glad,”  she  went  on,  “ that  they  got  on  so  well  to- 
gether. From  the  way  Mrs.  de  Braose  spoke  of  them 
I was  quite  frightened  when  they  were  announced.” 

“ Oh ! ” said  Sylvia,  coolly,  “ she  was  all  gracious- 
ness. She  wasn’t  in  the  least  gracious  to  us.”  And 
my  sister  smiled  complacently. 

“What  was  she  to  you?”  demanded  Peterkin; 
“ imgracious  ? ” 

Sylvia  deigned  no  reply,  and  Mamma  only  said, 
“ Perkin,  you’d  better  let  your  sister  alone.  She 
undeny/arccfa  these  things.  Of  course,  I saw  the  dif- 
ference. Even  Marjory  must  have  noticed  it.” 

“ Marjory,”  observed  Sylvia,  “ seemed  rather  daz- 
zled by  my  lord — I suppose  it  was  his  trousers.  They 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  Il] 


15 


were  dazzling.  Did  you  hear  him  ask  Mrs.  de  Braose 
if  she  was  riding,  and  offer  her  a lift?” 

“ On  a pillion  ? ” asked  Peterkin. 

“ No,  in  their  landau — as  far  as  the  Bridge  Wharf, 
I suppose.  I think  he  would  have  pressed  it,  only  he 
remembered  that  Bridge  Wharf  is  in  his  own  county, 
and  the  Lord  Lieutenant  could  not  sit  back  to  the 
horses  in  his  own  county.” 

Peterkin,  who  had  not  heard  Mrs.  de  Braose’s 
explanation  about  the  Lord  Lieutenant’s  ideas  as  to 
precedence,  stared  hard. 

“ Sylvia  talks,”  he  remarked,  “ as  if  we  had  been 
very  particular  at  Rawtown  about  the  lords  we  chose 
to  associate  with.  What’s  the  matter  with  this  one?  ” 
“ Nothing.  He  is  a worthy  person,”  our  sister  re- 
plied calmly.  “ Quite  worthy.” 

She  spoke  as  graciously  as  Mrs.  de  Braose  could 
have  done.  In  her  own  way  Sylvia  was  very  clever. 

“ Is  the  Dowager  Mrs.  What’s-her-name  worthy?” 
demanded  Peterkin,  opening  one  eye  all  the  wider  for 
his  leisurely  closing  of  the  other. 

“ Not  in  the  least.  She’s  a lady.” 

Sylvia  did  not  often  laugh,  but  she  smiled  often — 
and  well.  Her  mouth  never  looked  so  pretty  as  when 
she  was  smiling. 

“ I liked  her,”  said  our  mother,  “ and  I think  she 
liked  us  too;  but  it  was  you,  dear,  she  got  on  with.” 

“ We  understood  each  other,”  said  Sylvia.  “ It  is 
very  interesting  having  Llanthamy  Castle  over  there  ” 
— and  she  pointed  slightingly  with  her  left  hand  across 
the  river — “ and  Monkspark  on  our  side.  The  new 
lord  and  the  old  squire.  Of  course,  these  Monk£- 
bridges  are  nobodies.  The  de  Braoses ” 


i6 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  II 


“ Bruises?  ” queried  Peterkin. 

“ Sylvia  always  knows,”  murmured  our  mother. 
“ De  Braose  is  pronounced  ‘ de  Brooze.’  ” 

This  tribute  was  quite  just.  Sylvia  always  did  know. 
Had  she  read  a surname  spelled  St.  Mark,  she  would 
instantly  have  understood  it  should  be  called  “ Sum- 
mack  indeed,  I remember  her  at  ten  years  old  quot- 
ing the  sixth  chapter  of  “ Sinjun.” 

“ The  de  Braoses,”  Sylvia  continued,  “ are  really 
people;  they  have  owned  all  this  land  for  over  seven 
hundred  years.  About  six  peerages  are  dormant  in 
their  family.  Our  Mrs.  de  Braose  would  be  Lord  Pole 
of  the  March  had  she  been  a man.  And  the  last 
squire,  this  one’s  uncle,  married  a peeress  in  her  own 
right.” 

Sylvia  told  us  all  this  in  an  easy  casual  manner  as 
though  she  had  known  it  all  her  life,  whereas  she  had 
known  it  about  twenty  minutes.  Sir  Stapleton  had 
left  any  number  of  Peerages,  County  Families,  and 
such  works  at  Cross  Place,  and  my  sister  had  almost 
a genius  for  the  rapid  assimilation  of  the  sort  of  in- 
formation they  conveyed.  She  also  had  a way  of 
telling  what  she  knew  that  gave  the  impression  of  its 
being  only  a small  part  of  her  knowledge,  when  it  was 
all  she  had  at  the  moment. 

Peterkin  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  round  the  room 
as  if  in  search  of  stray  noblemen,  and  slowly  whis- 
tling, shrugged  his  broad  young  shoulders. 

“ You,  my  dear,”  he  would  sometimes  say  to  my- 
self, with  engaging  frankness,  “ are  far  from  clever, 
and  it  is  just  as  well;  one  family  could  not  support 
twin  Sylvias.” 


CHAPTER  III 


Our  next  visitor  was  Miss  Belvoir,  who  called  on  the 
following  day,  and  came  neither  in  a boat  nor  a landau, 
but  in  a Bath-chair,  drawn  by  a gaspy  old  man  called 
Hopple.  He  was  not  anybody  else’s  servant,  so  Miss 
Belvoir  considered  him  hers,  and  spoke  of  him  as  “ my 
man,”  but  he  only  worked  three  out  of  the  seven  days 
for  her.  On  Sundays  he  was  parish  clerk,  on  Tues- 
days, Thursdays,  and  Saturdays  he  was  a cobbler. 

Some  people  said  that  there  was  no  reason  on  earth 
why  Miss  Belvoir  should  not  walk  about  like  any  one 
else,  and  I never  heard  of  any  lameness  or  disease  to 
account  for  the  Bath-chair,  and  she  was  not  more  than 
fifty  when  we  went  to  Monksbridge,  but,  after  her 
father’s  death,  she  had  no  longer  a pony-carriage,  and 
she  had  a spirit  that  could  not  brook  going  afoot.  The 
late  Rev.  Lionel  Belvoir  had  been  Vicar  of  Monks- 
bridge, and  very  early  in  her  visit  his  daughter  men- 
tioned him  by  name  to  avoid  our  taking  up  a wrong 
pronunciation  of  it.  She  was  Miss  “ Beever,”  and  felt 
that  much  depended  on  it.  The  consciousness  of  being 
a “ Beever  ” gave  an  arid  flavour  of  dukeishness  to  her 
manners.  Of  the  actually  ducal  family  of  that  name 
she  was  fond  of  explaining  that  they  only  became  pos- 
sessed of  Belvoir  Castle  “by  a mere  marriage  late  in 
the  fifteenth  century.  They  are  Belvoirs  only  in  the 
female  line,  and  ours  was  the  elder  branch.  I am  a 
male  Belvoir.” 

Her  claim  to  being  a male  Belvoir  was  partly  sus- 

17 


MONKSBRIDGE 


18 


[CH.  Ill 


tained  by  a pale  but  distinct  moustache,  and  by  a voice 
of  gloomy  bass. 

The  address  on  Miss  Belvoir’s  card  was  English 
Gate,  and  we  already  knew  the  place.  It  was  a sort  of 
tower,  at  the  Monksbridge  end  of  the  bridge,  with  an 
arch  under  which  the  roadway  passed.  It  was  a som- 
bre, low-browed  sort  of  building,  like  a weazened  little 
castle  that  had  grown  old  without  ever  growing  up.  It 
was,  indeed,  black  with  age;  the  windows  were  small 
and  deep  in  enormously  thick  walls,  and  it  had  a port- 
cullis, and  machicolated  battlements  ran  round  the  top. 
The  habitable  part  was  all  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
road,  except  for  one  room  over  the  arch  which  was 
Miss  Belvoir’s  dining-room;  if  you  lunched  with  her 
you  often  heard  weird  rumblings  under  your  feet  as 
some  heavy  cart  passed  on  to  the  bridge.  Her  draw- 
ing-room, bedroom,  kitchen,  and  servant’s  bedroom 
were  all  on  the  left  side,  and  there  she  had  a small 
garden  with  a high  battlemented  wall  to  match  the  top 
of  the  tower.  In  it  Hopple  worked  on  three  mornings 
of  each  week,  and  from  it,  as  from  her  drawing-room, 
there  was  a lovely  view  down  the  river. 

Miss  Belvoir’s  dress  was  not  really  feudal,  but  it 
suggested  a correspondence  or  sympathy  with  the 
fortalice  in  which  she  lived.  It  was  not  an  ancestral 
home,  being  rented  of  the  mayor  and  corporation, 
whom  she  was  bound  to  supply  at  Christmas  with  ten 
turkeys,  and  at  midsummer  with  ten  live  salmon  and  as 
many  fat  capons.  Keeping  no  poultry,  and  being  no 
fisherwoman,  she  remitted  at  each  of  those  seasons 
three  five-pound  notes,  and  received  from  his  worship 
a formal  receipt  for  the  live-stock. 

“ I moved  there — to  English  Gate — on  my  dear  fa- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


19 


CH.  Ill] 

tiler’s  death,”  Miss  Belvoir  told  us.  “ Mr.  Beever  was 
Vicar  of  Monksbridge,  and  for  thirty  years  (since 
before  my  birth,  in  fact)  the  Priory  had  been  my 
home.  After  the  Priory  I could  not  bear  the  idea  of 
living  in  a mere  house.” 

“ I should  have  thought,”  observed  our  Sylvia,  alert 
for  information,  “ that  Mr.  Beever  ” — distinctly  to  set 
the  lady’s  mind  at  rest — “ would  have  been  more  than 
Vicar.  The  Priory  is  such  an  immense  church — 
Rector  would  have  seemed  more  suitable.” 

“ Yes,  my  dear,  you  are  right — in  principle.  But, 
you  see,  the  Abbot  of  Marybridge  was  Rector  of 
Monksbridge,  and  took  the  great  tithes.  The  church 
was  built  by  the  Abbey  and  made  a sub-priory  of  it. 
Mr.  de  Braose  represents  the  Abbot  and  is  lay  Rector 
now ; he  draws  the  great  tithes — for  Monkspark  is  only 
the  name  they  gave  to  Marybridge  Abbey  when  the 
de  Braoses  got  it  at  the  Dissolution.  The  squire  has 
many  quaint  abbatial  rights.  The  chancel  of  our 
church  is  his,  and  marriages  and  baptisms  have  to  be 
registered  at  Monkspark — they  keep  the  book  in  the 
billiard-room ; and  Mr.  de  Braose  has  a mitre  for  sec- 
ond crest,  and  bears  a crozier  on  a canton  in  his  arms. 
But  my  father,  Mr.  Beever,  was  more  than  Vicar;  he 
was  Rural  Dean.  In  his  Ruri-decanal  office  he  was 
very  active,  and  but  for  his  death  would  now  have 
been  Archdeacon  ten  years — the  appointment  found 
him  in  his  coffin.” 

Miss  Belvoir’s  voice  sounded  so  sepulchral  that  I 
found  it  depressing,  but  Sylvia  liked  it.  She  was  a 
gaunt,  lean  lady,  was  our  visitor,  austerely  clad,  with- 
out a hint  of  crinoline  or  flounce,  and  her  bonnet  looked 
incomplete  without  a visor.  But  though  she  looked 


20 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  Ill 


poor  and  was  not  of  a jocund  demeanour,  she  had, 
Sylvia  assured  us  later  on,  the  grand  manner,  which 
mattered  much  more.  Sylvia  could  be  all  things  to  all 
men  so  long  as  they  had  the  grand  manner  and  showed 
they  had  a right  to  it. 

Miss  Belvoir’s  features  were  “ Roman,”  and  her 
complexion,  if  bilious,  was  rather  distinguished.  Her 
feet,  like  Miss  Bronte’s  and  Miss  Ferrier’s,  were  small 
and  pretty,  and  any  vanity  she  had  centred  in  them. 
Her  boots  were  never  shabby  or  ill-made. 

“ You  will  like  my  abode,”  she  said,  turning  to  my 
mother,  but  meaning  Sylvia.  “ I must  call  it  an  abode, 
for  it  is  not  a house — a river-tower,  rather.” 

“ I should  love,”  said  Sylvia,  “ to  live  in  a river- 
tower.” 

“Should  you,  my  dear?  Well,  so  do  I.  It  has  a 
character.  And  there’s  plenty  of  room  for  me  and  my 
reduced  establishment.”  Thus  did  Miss  Belvoir  allude 
to  Hopple’s  granddaughter,  who  was  her  tire-woman 
and  cook,  kitchen-maid,  laundry-maid,  stillroom-maid, 
and  chamberlain.  “ I have  a delightful  drawing-room, 
with  a vaulted  stone  roof,  and  a dining-room  that  was 
the  guard-room.” 

“ I should  love,”  said  Sylvia,  “ to  dine  in  a guard- 
room.  Even  a mutton  cutlet  would  taste  medievally.” 

“ It  does,”  Miss  Belvoir  declared,  with  strong  signs 
of  approval. 

Strictly  speaking,  Miss  Belvoir  had  never  dined  in 
her  guard-room.  At  one  she  lunched  in  it,  and  at  five 
she  drank  tea;  at  eight  she  discussed  a sardine  or  a 
poached  egg,  with  a moderate  glass  of  negus.  If  she 
dined  it  was  abroad. 

“ My  dear,”  she  added,  “ I hope  you  will  accompany 


MONKSBRIDGE 


21 


CH.  Ill] 


Mrs.  Auberon  when  she  favours  me  with  a call,  and  ” 
— turning  to  me — “ you  also.” 

“ Oh  yes ! ” remarked  Sylvia,  slightly  raising  one  of 
her  pretty  eyebrows.  She  always  did  accompany 
Mamma  on  such  occasions,  or  rather  Mamma  never 
called  anywhere  without  Sylvia  in  command.  “ I shall 
be  delighted.  Marjory  is  often  occupied  with  her 
studies.” 

Sylvia  had  at  that  time  a habit  of  speaking  of  me 
as  though  I were  several  years  her  junior,  and  Miss 
Belvoir  accepted  the  situation.  She  clearly  set  me 
down  as  a schoolroom  girl,  and  smiled  encouragingly 
as  if  to  bid  me  not  despair,  for  I should  grow  out 
of  it  (D.V.).  In  her  notes  inviting  her  friends  to  tea, 
she  always  mentioned  that  she  would  be  at  home 
(D.V.)  on  Wednesday. 

Sylvia  was  taller  than  me,  and,  in  one  of  her  old 
coarse  dresses,  I looked  shorter  than  I was.  She  was 
in  long  frocks,  and  had  her  hair  up.  Having  had 
measles  six  months  before  I had  no  hair  to  put  up, 
but  only  short  curls  reaching  to  the  nape  of  my  neck. 
Sylvia,  of  course,  had  not  had  the  measles;  she  never 
did  have  tiresome  diseases.  At  seventeen  she  was  tall, 
slim,  and  very  pretty — more  than  pretty — with  beau- 
tiful and  abundant  silky  dark-brown  hair,  and  dark- 
brown  eyes,  large  and  soft.  Her  mouth  and  teeth  were 
quite  perfect,  neither  too  large  nor  too  small.  Her 
nose  was  entrancing,  not  really  retroussee,  but  very 
nearly,  thin,  and  most  aristocratic. 

At  seventeen  I was  almost  fat,  and  my  eyes  were 
blue  (like  Hannah’s,  as  Sylvia  observed;  and  it  is  true 
that  Hannah’s  eyes  were  blue,  but  they  were  remark- 
ably pleasant)  ; and  my  curls  were  of  a startling  dark 


22 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  Ill 


red,  like  a horse-chestnut,  which  is  not  in  the  least  the 
colour  of  a chestnut  horse.  My  mouth  was  too  wide 
(because,  Sylvia  said,  I laughed  too  much),  and  my 
nose  was  larger  than  any  miniature  portrait  we  pos- 
sessed authorized.  Sylvia  had  the  Auberon  nose,  as  a 
miniature  of  our  father’s  grandmother  proved. 

“ Having  no  figure  you  should,”  she  used  to  impress 
upon  me,  “ cultivate  carriage.  Look  at  Mrs.  de  Braose. 
She  is  fat,  and  she  is  almost  a dwarf ; but  her  car- 
riage ! ” 

“ I think,”  Mamma  pleaded,  “ that  Madge  will 
grow.  I was  short  at  her  age.” 

“ Mamma ! You  were  never  dumpy.  Madge  should 
not  trust  to  mere  growth.  That’s  simply  gambling 
with  Providence.  She  should  learn  carriage ; we  should 
use  the  means  in  our  power,  and  not  lean  on  contin- 
gencies. Carriage  and  manner  are  within  her  reach. 
Look  at  Miss  Belvoir!  I never  saw  a plainer  woman; 
and  her  clothes  aren’t  worth  a scarecrow’s  stealing. 
But  you  can’t  think  of  her  looks,  nor  of  her  alpaca 
cape ” 

“Was  it  alpaca?  I didn’t  notice  that,”  murmured 
our  mother. 

“ Of  course  it  was,”  said  Sylvia,  who  couldn’t  think 
of  Miss  Belvoir’s  clothes,  “ and  of  no  fashion  ever 
revealed  to  mankind,  and  a poor  quality,  and  badly 
made.  But  her  manner  would  carry  off  a dozen  capes. 
She  has  breeding  all  over  her.” 

“ I don’t  think  Madge  could  ever  say  ‘ My  father 
was  Rural  Dean,’  like  Miss  Belvoir.” 

“ No;  and  it  would  not  be  true,”  said  Sylvia,  who 
was  always  rather  matter-of-fact.  “ Fibs  are  not  at 
all  in  the  grand  manner.” 


ch.  iii]  MONKSBRIDGE  23 

Mamma  looked  mildly  surprised,  for  dear  Sylvia 
didn’t  invariably  stick  to  literal  truth. 

“ Manner  comes,”  my  sister  continued  gravely, 
“ from  remembering  what  is  behind  one.” 

Mamma  glanced  hastily  over  her  shoulder,  as  if  to 
see  if  anything  particular  was  behind  her. 

“ Miss  Belvoir  never  forgets  she  is  a ” 

“ Male  Belvoir,”  I suggested. 

“ Marjory  dear,  don’t  try  for  smartness,”  my  sister 
entreated.  “At  your  age  it  is  offensive;  at  any  age  it 
is  rarely  combined  with  that  repose  so  essential  to  a 
fine  manner.  Wit  is  seldom  well-bred.  What  I was 
about  to  say  when  you  interrupted  was — remember  al- 
ways you  are  an  Auberon,  and  a de  la  Beche  on  Mam- 
ma’s side.” 

Our  mother  had  been  a Miss  Beech,  and  the  ancient 
form  of  the  name  was  de  la  Beche,  which  my  sister 
greatly  preferred.  She  herself  had  been  christened 
Sylvia  Beech,  but  always  signed  herself  Sylvia  de  la 
Beche  Auberon.  An  ancestor  of  Mamma’s,  Nicholas 
de  la  Beche,  was  summoned  to  Parliament,  as  a Baron 
by  Writ,  by  Edward  III.,  on  25th  February,  1342,  and 
Sylvia  never  forgot  him.  It  was,  I suspected,  by  re- 
membering him  that  I was  to  attain  the  grand 
manner. 

“ All  right,”  I said  cheerfully ; “ I’ll  bear  in  mind 
that  I’m  a Baron  by  Writ,  in  the  female  line,  like  the 
Duke  of  Rutland.” 

“ That,”  said  Sylvia,  “ is  nonsense.  Should  the 
title  be  revived,  I am  the  elder  daughter.” 

“ And  there’s  Peterkin,”  observed  Mamma. 

“ I regard  him  merely  as  an  Auberon.”  And,  so 
saying,  Sylvia  left  the  room. 


24  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  iii 

All  this,  however,  took  place  when  Miss  Belvoir  had 
gone;  we  must  return  to  her. 

“ Can  you,”  she  asked  us,  as  her  visit  drew  to  its 
close,  “come  to  me  on  Wednesday  next?  It  is  not 
very  far  to  English  Gate,  but  I should  be  sorry  for 
you  to  have  the  walk  for  nothing.  If  you  called 
unexpectedly  I might  be  out — and  you  keep,  I think. 


“ Bath-chair?  No,”  Sylvia  put  in  sweetly.  She  was 
annoyed  at  the  allusion  to  our  having  no  carriage. 
Mamma  blushed,  but  perhaps  Miss  Belvoir  did  not 
quite  catch  what  my  sister  had  said,  for  she  merely 
went  on — 

“ No;  I thought  not.  The  Baroness  did  not  either, 
but  she  is  such  a walker.  Well,  I shall  be  at  home  on 
Wednesday ” 

“ I think,  Mamma,”  said  Sylvia,  who  had  no  idea  of 
cheapening  her  family  by  too  easy  a concession,  “ that 
you  said  we  should  have  to  return  the  Monksbridges’ 
call  on  Wednesday.” 

Mamma  looked  as  if  she  did  not  recollect  having 
said  so,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  she  did. 

“ Perhaps  we  ought,”  she  murmured.  “ First  calls 
should  be  returned  at  once.” 

“ I hoped  I was  your  first  caller,”  said  Miss  Belvoir. 

“ Mrs.  de  Braose  called  yesterday,”  Sylvia  re- 
marked slightly,  “ and  the  Monksbridges.”  She  al- 
most smiled  as  she  mentioned  their  name,  as  if  they 
were  a recognized  joke.  “ Charming  people,”  she 
added  with  a demure  propriety. 

“We  all  think  Mrs.  de  Braose  charming,”  said  Miss 
Belvoir,  almost  overpowered  by  my  sister’s  sang- 
froid. 


i 


ch.  hi]  MONKSBRIDGE  25 

Sylvia  smiled  outright.  “ Oh ! Mrs.  de  Braose ! 
She  is  quite  different.” 

And  Miss  Belvoir  was,  I think,  overpowered  alto- 
gether. Herself  entirely  of  the  de  Braose  faction,  she 
had  never  heard  the  nobility  of  Lord  and  Lady  Monks- 
bridge  so  entirely  treated  as  a local  pleasantry. 

“ Lord  Monksbridge  has  a good  deal  of  influence 
with  his  party,”  she  remarked.  “ Of  course  the  title 
is  new.” 

“ And  it  never  will  be  more  than  stale.  Those  sort 
of  titles  never  become  old.  No  party  can  give  its  rich 
adherents  what  only  the  Middle  Ages  can  give.  Pedi- 
grees can’t  begin  in  the  nineteenth  century.  A Radical 
nobody  may  become  a peer,  but  he  cannot  become  a 
Man  of  Blood.  Nothing  can  be  called  blood  that  does 
not  flow  back  to  the  Plantagenet  times.” 

Miss  Belvoir  fidgeted  in  her  seat,  but  with  a cer- 
tain admiration. 

“ But,  my  dear,  of  course  we  shall  not  see  it,  but 
in  five  hundred  years’  time,  Lord  Monksbridge’s  will 
be  a very  old  family;  it  isn’t  more  than  five  hundred 
years  from  Plantagenet  times  now ! ” 

Sylvia  smiled.  “ Five  hundred  years  in  the  modern 
world  will  not  make  a family  feudal,”  she  said  calmly. 
“ The  de  Belvoirs,  the  de  la  Beches,  and  the  de  l’Au- 
berons  were  feudal.  In  the  twenty-fourth  century 
the  Monksbridges  will  be  no  more  feudal  than  they  are 
now.” 

Her  tone,  always  mild  and  almost  indolent,  admit- 
ted of  no  discussion,  and  Miss  Belvoir  was  at  heart 
all  on  her  side. 

“ My  dear  Mrs.  Auberon,”  she  said,  “ your  daugh- 
ter has  a spirit  that  is  rare  indeed  in  this  vulgar  age. 


26 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  Ill 

She  goes  beyond  me.  I know  money  is  nothing  ” — 
her  own  was  only  by  about  a hundred  and  nine  pounds 
a year  removed  from  nothing — “ but  I see  so  much 
made  of  it,  that  at  times  I find  it  hard  to  so  thoroughly 
disregard  it  and  its  influence ” 

“ Money,”  said  Sylvia,  “ is  anything  but  nothing. 
It  buys  everything  that  is  for  sale.  Blood  isn’t.  The 
thing  is  to  combine  them.  If  Sir  Silas  had  been  wise 
he  would  have  married  Blood — then  the  next  Lord 
Monksbridge  might  have  been  really  noble,  in  the  fe- 
male line.  Half  a loaf  is  better  than  no  bread.” 

“ They  say,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  “ his  son  is  likely  to 
marry  Lady  Agatha  St.  Rand,  the  Earl  of  Pall  Mall’s 
daughter.” 

“ That  won’t  give  him  Blood,”  Sylvia  explained 
coolly.  “ Lord  Pall  Mall’s  grandfather  was  found  in 
a basket,  on  a doorstep  in  the  Strand,  and  Strand  was 
all  the  name  he  had.  St.  Rand  is  all  nonsense ; the  title 
moved  westward  with  the  family — and  I dare  say  the 
Earl’s  son  will  be  Marquis  of  Piccadilly,  and  his  son 
Duke  of  Knightsbridge.  But  they’ll  all  be  Strands — 
out  of  a basket.” 

Miss  Belvoir  rubbed  the  frosty  tip  of  her  Roman 
nose  with  her  card-case,  and  Mamma  stared  in  admi- 
ration. Hozv  did  Sylvia  know  all  this?  What  cannot 
genius  learn — with  “ Anecdotes  of  the  Aristocracy  ” in 
the  house? 

“Well,  shall  we  say  Friday  (D.V.)?”  asked  Miss 
Belvoir,  quite  meekly.  And  her  tone  was  not  usually 
meek. 

And  we  said  “ Friday,”  Sylvia  volente. 


CHAPTER  IV 


Sylvia  managed  us  all;  we  had  seen  it  coming  for  a 
year  or  two,  and  only  Peterkin  really  objected. 
Mamma  was  made  for  slavery,  and  I for  subjection, 
and  Peterkin,  resolute  against  succumbing  himself, 
could  breathe  no  spirit  of  rebellion  into  Mamma;  he 
breathed  it  daily  into  me,  but,  much  more  than  daily, 
Sylvia  sat  on  any  inflation  he  had  inspired  and  ex- 
ploded it.  On  him  she  did  not  sit,  for  she  was  fond 
of  easy  seats,  and  her  brother  was  not  easy. 

“ It’s  a shame  if  she  makes  Mugs  a snob,”  he  de- 
clared fervently.  “ She’s  welcome  to  you,  if  you’re 
fool  enough  to  let  her  snobbify  you.  You’re  a mere 
twin.” 

“ I defy  the  Archangel  Gabriel  to  make  a snob  of 
Mamma,”  I expostulated,  with  loose  and  hasty  rhetoric. 

“ Sylvia  doesn’t  remind  me  a bit  of  archangels,”  said 
my  brother. 

“ But  Mamma’s  an  angel,”  I argued,  sure  of  my 
point  and  indifferent  to  lines  of  argument. 

“Yes.  But  if  Sylvia  persuades  her  that  she’s  not  a 
curate’s  widow,  but  a sort  of  Dowager  Baroness  by 
writ ! They’re  all  dowagers  here.  There’s  a Dowager 
Viscountess  and  a Dowager  Ambassadress  (German 
Ambassadress  from  Wales),  and  a Dowager  Squiress, 
and  you’ll  be  a Dowager  Idiot  before  you’re  twenty 
if  you  don’t  stick  up  to  Sylvia.” 

Willing  to  justify  myself,  like  the  lawyer  in  the 
Bible,  I said — 


27 


28 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  IV 

“ She’s  my  twin;  and  how  pretty  she  is!  And  she 
is  clever.  Any  one  would  think  we  had  a thousand 
a year — five  thousand! — she  manages  so  well.  You 
know  Mamma  could  never  keep  accounts.” 

“ What’s  the  good  of  accounts  ? A mutton  chop 
doesn’t  cost  less  because  you  write  the  price  down  in  a 
book.  And  Sylvia  thinks  money’s  for  anything  but 
to  spend.  Have  you  a penny  more  to  spend  for  Syl- 
via’s accounts — or  I?  If  Mugs  gives  me  five  shillings 
she  looks  as  if  she  was  stealing  it.” 

Poor  Perkin ! He  was  always  getting  five  shillingses 
out  of  Mamma;  and  in  a way  she  was  stealing  them, 
for  she  had  listened,  with  as  much  appearance  of  un- 
derstanding as  she  could  assume,  to  Sylvia’s  explana- 
tion of  how  four  hundred  a year  could  keep  Cross 
Place  and  us  going  without  our  falling  into  debt,  and 
had  said  “ Most  certainly,”  whenever  Sylvia  said,  “ We 
must  not  spend  more  than  so  much  on  this,  or  more 
than  so  much  on  that.”  My  sister  allowed  a certain 
sum  for  Peterkin  (perhaps  with  an  air  of  considering 
him  an  expensive  luxury),  and  all  those  five  shillingses 
were  extras,  by  no  means  included  in  her  calculation. 
Her  total  estimate  for  everything  came  to  £369  17s. 
8d.  per  annum. 

“ So,”  she  had  bid  us  note,  “ there  will  be  thirty 
pounds  over — in  round  numbers.” 

“ What’s  the  good  of  having  thirty  pounds  over  in 
round  numbers  ? ” Perkin  complained. 

“ In  case,  for  instance,  of  illness.” 

“ But  you’ve  allowed  for  doctor  and  chemist  al- 
ready. Do  you  propose  to  send  for  Dr.  Floke  in 
perfect  health,  or  to  take  pills  for  pleasure?  ” 

“ The  sum  I put  down  for  medical  attendance  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


29 


CH.  IV] 

chemist  is  for  ordinary  medical  attendance — coughs, 
colds,  bilious  attacks  of  yours,  and  so  on.  It  would 
not  cover  real  illnesses.” 

“What’s  the  good  of  being  really  ill?” 

“ I must  say,”  Mamma  interposed,  “ Sylvia  never 
is  ill  herself.  It’s ” 

And  she  paused,  unwilling,  while  justifying  my  sis- 
ter, to  condemn  me,  for  it  was  I who  had  indulged  in 
uncalled-for  measles  and  chicken-poxes,  pleurisy  once, 
and  bronchitis  twice. 

I felt  this  and  blushed.  “ I’ve  had  most  things  now,” 
I said  apologetically. 

“ You’re  capable  of  having  gout  to-morrow,”  Sylvia 
observed,  with  unmoved  calmness.  “ It’s  best  to  be 
on  the  safe  side.” 

“ She  eats  much  less  than  you,”  said  Perkin,  bru- 
tally. “ Gout,  indeed ! ” 

“No,  she  doesn’t,”  I cried  indignantly;  “only  she 
eats  slowly  and  I gobble.” 

“ Yes,  dear;  you  do,”  Sylvia  agreed,  “ and  so  does 
he.  It’s  not  a refined  habit.  But  my  point  is  this : if 
we  keep  out  of  debt,  it’s  our  own  fault  if  we’re  not 
comfortable  and  respected  here  at  Cross  Place. 
There’s  no  rent  to  pay,  and  no  rates — thanks  to  Uncle 
Stapleton  giving  a thousand  pounds  towards  the  res- 
toration of  the  Guildhall  on  condition  that  this  estate 
should  be  rate-free.”  (Sylvia  liked  to  talk  of  “this 
estate.”)  “The  garden  half  feeds  us;  and  the  style 
of  living,  I think,  is  very  moderate  in  Monksbridge. 
Cross  Place  gives  us  a position,  and  we  ourselves  can 
assure  it;  but  if  we  get  into  debt  we  shall  be  wretched 
and  despised.” 

Mamma  gurgled  a melancholy  approval.  Sylvia 


30 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  IV 

had  common  sense,  and  a conscience  of  her  own; 
but  Mamma  had  imagination,  and  I knew  she 
was  picturing  us  in  woeful  procession  to  the  work- 
house. 

Peterkin,  unable  to  controvert  Sylvia’s  position,  ob- 
jected to  the  application  of  her  argument.  Of  course 
we  should  keep  out  of  debt,  but  not  by  tedious  scru- 
tiny of  expenditure. 

I always  knew  she  was  right;  it  was  part  of  her 
general  superiority.  Perhaps,  had  I stepped  into  the 
world  five  and  twenty  minutes  earlier,  I might  have 
been  less  inferior;  as  it  was  I merely  embraced  the 
fact — gingerly. 

“ Education ! ” said  my  sister.  “ For  a time  that 
must  be  considered.  Madge  plays  badly,  but  she  likes 
it ; there’s  a Miss  Boon,  I find,  who  gives  lessons  at  two 
shillings  each,  provided  you  take  a course.  Marjory 
must  take  it.”  She  spoke  exactly  as  though  it  were  a 
pill,  and  I was  to  swallow  it  without  dallying.  “ And 
I think  we  should  both  of  us  have  French  lessons. 
There’s  a school — Magnolia  House — and  the  French 
governess  there  could  come  here.  I will  arrange  that, 
and  I see  my  way  to  doing  it  cheaply.  Mrs.  Fox  is,  I 
gather,  more  or  less  in  society  here.  (Her  husband 
was  a perpetual  curate  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
rather  looked  on.)  She  and  her  daughter  will  call,  I 
dare  say;  and  one  would  wish  to  be  particularly  civil 
to  them.  Of  course,  Mademoiselle  would  not  call  with 
them,  but  I see  the  way  quite  clearly.” 

Mamma  and  I felt  no  doubt  of  it.  Perkin  kicked 
out  one  leg  as  if  he  had  none  either. 

“ But,”  said  Mamma,  “ there’s  your  brother.  For  a 
boy,  education  is  of  practical  importance.” 


ch.  iv]  MONKSBRIDGE  31 

Perkin  kicked  out  the  other  leg,  but  not  this  time 
to  express  conviction. 

“ Of  course,”  Sylvia  remarked,  without  the  least 
concerning  herself  with  him,  “ I was  coming  to  that. 
He  will  have  his  own  way  to  make.” 

“ I,”  he  observed,  with  a grin,  “ am  the  Heir  Male 
of  this  estate.” 

“ That,”  his  sister  declared,  “ is  nonsense.  If  you 
were,  and  if  the  estate  were  four  thousand  instead  of 
four  hundred  a year,  you  would  have  to  be  educated. 
In  Monksbridge  there  are  peculiar  facilities.  Mamma, 
have  you  heard  of  Abbot’s  School?  No?  I thought 
not.  But  you  must  have  noticed  some  boys  in  red 
gowns  going  about  in  the  town,  and  other  boys  with 
odd  jackets.  Yes;  well,  they  belong  to  Abbot’s  School. 
It  was  founded  by  an  Abbot  of  Marybridge,  and  he 
became  a Cardinal ” 

“ A Cardinal ! ” cried  Mamma,  rather  pained. 

“ Oh,  it  was  in  the  fifteenth  century ! ” Sylvia  ex- 
plained graciously.  “ There  was  no  harm  in  it  then ; 
princes  often  were.  In  fact,  this  Cardinal  was  a cousin 
of  King  Henry  III.  And  he  liked  boys”  (Sylvia 
mentioned  the  fact  as  a pardonable  idiosyncrasy  in  a 
semi-royal  personage) ; “ at  least  ” (as  though  unwill- 
ing to  do  him  an  injustice),  “ he  liked  educating  them. 
So  he  founded  this  school — and  a college  at  Cam- 
bridge, I think,  as  well.  It  was  for  fifty-two  boys  at 
first,  because  there  are  fifty-two ” 

“ Cards  in  a pack,”  suggested  Perkin. 

“No;  but  perhaps  because  there  are  fifty-two 
hounds  in  a pack,”  Sylvia  corrected,  with  some  slight 
irritation,  for  she  disliked  interruption.  “ But  when 
he  was  made  Cardinal,  he  added  seventy  scholars  in 


32 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  IV 

red  gowns,  and  each  of  them  can  get  into  his  college 
(at  Cambridge  or  elsewhere)  by  passing  a mere  ex- 
amination for  nothing.” 

“You  mean  the  examination  is  gratis?”  Perkin 
asked  coldly. 

“ No;  but  the  University  education.  There  is  only 
twelve  shillings  a year  to  pay — in  honour  of  the 
Twelve  Apostles.” 

“ That’s  an  imposition;  it  ought  only  to  be  eleven,” 
argued  Perkin.  “ Judas  hanged  himself.” 

“ My  dear ! ” cried  Mamma. 

“ He  forgets,”  Sylvia  observed,  with  calm  superi- 
ority, “Matthias.  Yes,  and”  (unanswerably)  “St. 
Paul.  St.  Paul  was  quite  an  Apostle.” 

“ But  he  makes  thirteen,”  objected  Perkin,  averse 
from  cordial  interest  in  the  Abbot’s  School. 

“ The  shillings,  however,  are  paid  monthly,”  our 
sister  explained. 

“ Twelve  shillings  a month  make  seven  pounds  four 
a year.  I hope  your  accounts  are  not  so  groggy  as 
your  multiplication.” 

“ * Groggy ! ’ Perkin,  dear ! ” Mamma  expostulated. 

Sylvia  paid  no  attention  to  either  of  them.  “ There 
are,”  she  reminded  us,  “ but  twelve  months  in  the  year, 
irrespective  of  the  Apostles,  and  one  shilling  a month 
is  all  that  the  Abbot’s  Scholars  pay.  The  Cardinal’s, 
as  the  red  ones  are  called,  pay  nothing.  The  education 
is  excellent.  I understand  that  numbers — certainly 
numbers;  I believe  nearly  fifty — bishops  have  been 
educated  there.” 

“ And  I,”  said  Perkin,  “ firmly  refuse  to  be  a 
bishop.” 


ch.  iv]  MONKSBRIDGE  33 

“ My  dear,  you  are  far  too  young,”  Mamma  began; 
but  Sylvia  cut  her  short. 

“ I,”  she  confessed,  “ would  like  a bishop  in  the 
family.  Had  dear  papa  lived  and  been  educated  at 
Abbot’s  School,  he  might  have  been  one  now.” 

“ My  dear,  he  is  an  angel,”  Mamma  reminded  her. 

“Yes,  Mamma;  but  he  might,  as  I say,  be  ‘My 
lord  ’ at  this  moment.  It  is  tiresome  and  foolish,”  our 
sister  added,  “ that  bishops’  wives  have  no  title.  You, 
dear,  would  not  have  been  ‘ My  lady.’  ” 

Perhaps  this  thought  partly  reconciled  her  to  the 
loss  of  papa’s  bishopric;  she  left  her  musings  and 
returned  to  the  practical  considerations  from  which 
she  never  strayed  far. 

“ I merely  mentioned  the  number  of  bishops  the 
school  has  turned  out,”  she  went  on.  “ It  just 
shows  the  education  is  first-rate;  and  it  costs  noth- 
ing.” 

“ And  Perkin  would  live  at  home,”  our  mother  re- 
minded herself  with  extreme  satisfaction. 

“ Yes;  at  first,”  said  Sylvia.  “ He  could  not  begin 
as  a Cardinal’s  Scholar.  The  Cardinal’s  Scholars  are 
boarders.  They  are  chosen  out  of  the  whole  school  as 
vacancies  occur — by ” 

“ Death  ? ” suggested  Perkin,  gloomily. 

“ Nonsense.  Boys  of  that  age  do  not  die.” 

“What  age?” 

“ Perkin  dear,”  Mamma  pleaded,  “ you  shouldn’t 
contradict  your  sister  when  she  is  arguing  for  your 
good.” 

“ Mamma,  I do  not  pay  the  slightest  attention  to 
anything  he  says.”  And  this  we  all  felt  was  strictly 
true.  “ The  vacancies  occur  when  one  of  the  Gowners 


34  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  iv 

(they  are  called  Gowners,  I hear)  goes  up  to  Cam- 
bridge  ” 

“ Or  elsewhere,”  Perkin  interposed. 

“ I am  nearly  sure  it  is  Cambridge ; or  else  it  is  Ox- 
ford, and  that  can  make  no  difference.  They  go  up, 
and  then  a vacancy  occurs.” 

“ Yes,  dear,  I understand,”  said  Mamma,  much 
pleased — Sylvia  was  always  clear. 

I think  we  all  understood  that  Peterkin  would  go 
to  Abbot’s  School.  Sylvia  had  practically  decided  it, 
and  our  business  was  submission.  It  was  all  as  she 
said:  the  school  was  an  excellent  one  and  it  cost 
nothing. 

“ The  grocer’s  sons  go  there,”  Perkin  remarked  in 
a disengaged  manner,  hoping  against  hope  to  hit  in 
between  a chink  of  Sylvia’s  armour.  “ Also  the  iron- 
monger’s. Delightful  boys,  I hear.  I shall  bring  them 
to  tea.” 

“ Like  to  like,”  our  imperturbable  sister  responded ; 
“ I know  that  most  of  the  boys  are  gentlemen.  If  you 
feel  more  at  home  with  future  grocers — but  as  to 
bringing  them  to  tea,  that  will  depend  on  Mamma.” 

“ Everything,”  Perkin  retorted,  rising  to  leave  the 
room,  “ does.” 

Sylvia  smiled  serenely,  accepting  the  innuendo  as 
a compliment  and  no  flattery. 

“ All  the  Abbot’s  schoolboys,”  she  said,  as  soon  as 
the  echo  of  the  banged  door  had  subsided,  “ must  be 
residents  of  Monksbridge.  Even  Llanthamy  boys  are 
not  eligible.  Mrs.  Travers  came  to  live  here  on  pur- 
pose, and  her  mother  was  Honourable.  I look  upon 
the  school  as  one  of  the  providential  things  about  our 
getting  Cross  Place.” 


ch.  iv]  MONKSBRIDGE  35 

Sylvia  had  the  shrewdest  sense  of  Providence  as 
applied  to  private  life. 

“ And  you  know,”  she  added,  with  her  cool  justice, 
“ Peterkin  is  not  dull.  If  others  have  become  bishops, 
why  not  he  ? ” 

“ I really  don’t  think,”  Mamma  confessed,  “ that  he 
would  like  it.  He  only  wore  an  apron  once,  and  that 
was  Susan’s,  to  paint  the  arbour  in.  He  spoilt  it,  and 
your  papa  had  to  give  her  three  new  ones.” 

“ That  is  nonsense,  dear.  Peterkin  would  like  six 
or  seven  thousand  a year  as  much  as  anybody.” 

Neither  Mamma  nor  I could  say  anything  against 
this. 

“ If,”  she  said  weakly,  “ he  could  have  the  income 
without  being  a bishop ” 

“ Mamma ! ” Sylvia  interposed.  “ In  what  other 
way  can  he  hope  to  have  anything  like  it  for  doing 
nothing  ? ” 


CHAPTER  V 


People  who  do  not  care  to  know  what  Monksbridge 
was  like  half  a century  ago,  when  we  went  to  live 
there,  had  better  skip  most  of  this  chapter.  I can- 
not help  trying  to  give  some  idea  of  it. 

First  of  all,  there  was  no  railway  station — on  which 
fact  the  aristocratic  Monksbridgers  plumed  themselves 
greatly.  A branch  line  of  a Welsh  railway  ran  up  to 
Llanthamy  and  ended  there.  It  had  been  one  of  Sir 
Silas  Monk’s  offences  that  he  had  brought  anything  so 
vulgar  so  near;  indeed,  the  “ loop  ” belonged,  I think, 
to  him.  But  over  the  river  he  had  not  prevailed  to 
bring  it,  and  Monksbridge  triumphed. 

For  our  part  we  never  used  the  Llanthamy  station, 
but,  approaching  our  homes  from  the  English  side, 
left  the  train  at  Ruyton  Abbas,  five  miles  off,  and  came 
on  in  a “ fly.”  There  was  an  omnibus  belonging  to 
the  Mitre,  which  also  met  trains,  but  the  upper  classes 
would  not  countenance  it,  because  it  also  met  those  that 
arrived  at  Llanthamy  station. 

The  drive  from  Ruyton  was  very  pretty,  through  a 
rich,  well-wooded  country;  the  Llanthamy  side  of  the 
river  was  treeless  and  bare,  and  the  first  view  of  the 
town  was  charming.  The  road  ran  down  a long  hill, 
with  the  park  palings  of  Monkspark  on  each  side,  and 
over  a Gothic  (a.d.  1797)  bridge  connecting  the  two 
halves  of  Mr.  de  Braose’s  demesne,  so  that  his  deer 
could  pass  to  and  fro  from  one  part  to  the  other.  Just 
outside  the  town  the  ground  became  suddenly  flat,  and 

36 


MONKSBRIDGE 


37 


CH.  V] 

out  of  the  main  stream  of  the  Tham  a branch,  like  a 
moat,  circled  the  walls,  and  fell  into  the  river  again  a 
quarter  of  a mile  lower  down.  The  walls  were  mostly 
ruinous,  never  having  been  re-built  since  their  bat- 
tering, during  the  Great  Rebellion,  by  General  Fairfax. 
But  the  gate  tower  was  still  standing  and  a long, 
slanting  bridge  ran  up  to  it;  in  wet  winters  there  was 
plenty  of  water  under  the  bridge,  but  in  summer  only 
moist  green  meadowland.  The  mayor  had  the  custody 
of  the  towngate  keys,  but  for  generations  they  had 
hung  in  the  Corporation  pew  in  the  Priory  Church. 
That  pew  was  just  outside  the  chancel,  and  over  it, 
against  one  of  the  pillars,  was  an  immense  framed 
coat-of-arms,  like  a hatchment,  representing  the  es- 
cutcheon of  the  borough — azure,  a bridge,  embattled, 
proper,  with  a crozier,  or,  in  chief,  to  remind  the 
townsfolk  that  it  was  to  an  Abbot  of  Marybridge  that 
they  owed  their  bridge.  In  front  of  the  gallery  was 
another  shield,  not  quite  so  large,  with  the  Royal 
Arms,  as  borne  by  George  III.  at  his  accession,  quar- 
tering France,  and  with  the  Hanoverian  quarterings 
on  an  in-escutcheon.  Of  course  this  was  supported 
by  a very  ill-disposed-looking  lion,  and  a unicorn 
whose  mane  wanted  cutting.  The  tower  of  the  Priory 
and  the  steep  roof  of  the  Guildhall  could  be  seen  over 
the  town  walls.  The  parish  church  was  never  called 
by  any  other  name  than  that  of  the  Priory,  but  we 
had  another  church,  St.  Thomas’s,  not  dedicated  to 
the  Apostle,  but  to  the  great  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury. It  was  built  “on  royal  ground,”  as  Miss  Bel- 
voir  told  us,  whether  by  Henry  VI.  or  Henry  III.  she 
wasn’t  sure.  As  it  was  older  than  the  Priory,  it  was 
probably  built  by  Henry  III. 


38 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  V 

The  population  of  Monksbridge  was  not  more  than 
three  thousand  in  our  time,  and  we  had  three  dis- 
senting chapels — Siloam  for  the  Primitive  Methodists, 
Ebenezer  for  the  Wesleyans,  and  Pisgah  for  the  In- 
dependents— so  that  the  huge  Priory  was  big  enough 
for  all  the  church  folk  who  went  to  church,  and  St. 
Thomas’s  had  but  a meagre  congregation.  However, 
the  vicar  was  not  badly  off,  for  in  pre-Reformation 
days  a good  deal  of  property  had  been  bequeathed  to 
it,  out  of  devotion  to  the  popular  martyr,  and,  though 
Mr.  de  Braose  had  the  great  tithes,  his  ancestors  had 
compounded,  and  the  clergyman  had  about  four  hun- 
dred a year,  and  Becket’s  Close-House  to  live  in. 

From  East  Gate  a winding  street  of  very  old  houses 
led  to  the  Guild  Piece,  which  in  any  less  ordinary 
town  would  have  been  called  the  Market  Square — 
though  it  was  of  long,  irregular,  triangular  shape. 
Here  was  the  Priory,  here  was  Abbot’s  School,  here 
was  Prior’s  House,  and  here  were  the  best  shops,  none 
of  them  with  ugly  plate-glass  shop-fronts.  Abbot’s 
School,  a beautiful  thirteenth-century  building,  stood 
back,  with  exquisite  lawns  before  it,  and  part  of  the 
Guild  Piece  was  a playground  for  the  boys.  Its  later 
hall  and  chapel  were  said  by  some  to  resemble  those 
of  King’s  College  in  Cambridge,  and  to  have  had  the 
same  architect.  From  Guild  Piece  another  irregular 
street  led  to  English  Gate  and  the  river.  Most,  though 
not  all,  of  the  gentry  lived  in  houses  lying  behind  the 
main  body  of  the  little  town,  and  had  gardens  run- 
ning back  to  the  old  walls. 

Our  own  garden  and  land  had  the  walls  for  their 
northern  boundary;  Mayor’s  Fields  bounded  them  east- 
ward, and  the  river  westward;  a lodge  and  shrubbery 


MONKSBRIDGE 


39 


CH.  V] 

asserted  our  dignity  on  the  southern  side,  and  just  out- 
side the  lodge-gates  was  the  beautiful  fourteenth- 
century  Cross,  which  gave  our  house  its  name.  It  was 
called  Lamb’s  Cross  and  had  a figure,  carved  in  stone 
but  much  weather-worn,  of  the  Lamb  of  God  on  one 
of  its  four  sides. 

The  chapels,  I have  mentioned,  were  all  in  side 
streets,  and  eschewed  the  vanity  of  architectural  at- 
tractions. Siloam  looked  like  an  elderly  cottage  with- 
out any  chimney  or  garden;  Ebenezer  was  built  of  a 
bilious  drab  brick,  staring  on  the  street  out  of  two 
round  windows,  like  sore  eyes,  edged  with  purplish- 
red  brick,  and  astonished-looking  eyebrows  over  them, 
excessively  arched,  of  the  same  livid  red.  Pisgah  had 
been  an  assembly  rooms,  and  was  bought  a bargain 
when  the  Monksbridge  aristocracy  gave  over  assem- 
bling once  a month  to  dance  and  play  whist.  Per- 
haps it  was  in  allusion  to  its  former  uses  that  an 
inscription  over  the  entrance  adjured  the  public  to 
“ Put  away  the  Accursed  Thing.”  In  Monksbridge 
there  was  no  Catholic  chapel — that  was  reserved  for 
the  generally  inferior  and  illicit  Llanthamy. 

From  the  Priory  a narrow  street  called  Litany  Row 
ran  up  towards  the  walls,  joining  a much  wider  road 
at  a place  known  as  Psalm  Steps,  whence  a steep  stone 
stairway  still  led  up  to  a spacious  turret  on  the  wall, 
projecting  from  it  on  a sort  of  bracket;  its  sides  were 
open,  but  the  roof  was  supported  on  four  Gothic 
arches. 

Miss  Belvoir  told  me  that  in  Popish  times  the  clergy 
and  choir  used  to  go  in  procession  on  Rogation  days 
from  the  Priory,  singing  the  Litany  as  they  passed 
down  the  street  of  that  name,  and  changing  to  a Psalm 


40 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  V 


at  the  Steps;  from  the  balcony-turret  the  Prior  blessed 
the  fields  outside,  hence  the  name  of  Blessing  Tower 
that  it  still  kept.  On  the  landward  face  of  the  turret 
was  a carved  representation  of  a hand,  raised  as  if 
in  benediction,  proceeding  from  a cloud. 

When  we  returned  Miss  Belvoir’s  call  we  found  her 
abode  at  English  Gate  as  odd  and  interesting  as  we 
had  expected.  The  stone  staircase,  narrow  and  spiral, 
was  rather  dark,  lit  only  by  slits  in  a wall  four  feet 
thick,  but  her  drawing-room  was  huge  and  high,  with 
a groined  stone  roof,  and  from  the  window  the  view 
down  the  river  was  really  lovely.  Her  furniture  was 
all  old  and  perhaps  a little  shabby,  still  it  suited  the 
place  better  than  smart  new  stuff  would  have  done, 
and  she  had  a good  many  family  portraits  that  suited 
her.  None  of  the  originals  could,  I think,  have  been 
beautiful,  but  they  had  an  air  of  importance,  as  if 
they  had  some  right  to  have  their  portraits  painted. 
Among  them  the  handsomest  was  that  of  King  Ed- 
ward I.,  and  Miss  Belvoir  explained  that  he  also  was 
an  ancestor. 

“ We,”  said  Sylvia,  “ are  descended  from  Edward 
III.” 

“ Ah ! Edward  I.  was  half  a century  earlier,”  ob- 
served our  hostess. 

“Yes,”  my  sister  agreed,  but  added  ruthlessly:  “If 
you’re  descended  from  Edward  III.  you  must  be  de- 
scended from  Edward  I.  too,  and  in  royal  descents  the 
point  is  to  be  descended  from  as  late  a king  as  possible.” 

After  this  speech  I doubt  if  Miss  Belvoir  was  as 
fond  of  Sylvia  as  she  had  at  first  seemed  inclined  to 
be.  It  was  to  me  she  turned  as  she  said  with  a tight 
little  smile — 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  V] 


41 


“ As  we  both  go  back  to  the  Hammer  of  the  Scots 
we’re  cousins,  my  dear.” 

“ How  do  you  know,”  Mamma  asked  Sylvia  after- 
wards, “ that  we’re  related  to  Edward  III.  ? I never 
heard  papa  mention  it,  and  he  often  talked  of  our 
connection  with  the  Blicks  of  Blickling  Court — a very 
important  family  in  Norfolk,  I think,  or  perhaps  York- 
shire. Probably  Yorkshire,  for  I know  it  was  through 
a bishop,  and  he  may  have  been  Archbishop  of  York.” 

“ Oh ! ” Sylvia  replied  coolly,  “ I don’t  suppose  you 
are  descended  from  Edward  III.;  it’s  an  Auberon  de- 
scent. I read  it  in  a book  of  Uncle  Stapleton’s.” 

“ But  he,”  Mamma  urged,  “ was  not  an  Auberon. 
Anything  but.  He  was  never  on  terms  with  your  dear 
father.” 

“ No.  The  book  was  his;  but  it  has  a number  of 
royal  descents,  and  I saw  one  in  which  a John  Auberon 
married  a Howard  of  Corby,  almost  a Norfolk  How- 
ard.” (Mamma,  I did  not  know  why,  jumped  visi- 
bly.) “ All  the  Howards  are  descended  from  Edward 
III.,  and  I’ve  no  doubt  that  John  Auberon  (it  was 
spelled  Oberon  in  the  pedigree)  was  papa’s  ancestor. 
Dear  papa’s  name  was  John,  and  Christian  names  al- 
ways run  in  families.” 

“ Well,”  Mamma  said,  “ I think  you  were  rather 
too  severe  with  Miss  Belvoir  about  Edward  I.  if  your 
relationship  to  Edward  III.  isn’t  quite  certain.  I don’t 
think  she  was  pleased.” 

“ No,  of  course  not.  I meant  her  to  be  snubbed. 
Miss  Belvoir  is  a woman  whom  one  must  keep  in  her 
place.  And  I have  no  doubt  about  Edward  III.  Papa 
had  at  times  quite  the  Plantagenet  eye.” 

“ I thought  Miss  Belvoir  had  the  grand  manner 


42  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  v 

when  she  said  we  were  cousins,”  I suggested  pleas- 
antly. 

“ You  haven’t  the  least  idea,”  said  Sylvia,  “ what  it 
is.  The  grand  manner  is  never  heated.  She  was  quite 
warm.” 

It  was,  I supposed,  not  in  keeping  with  the  grand 
manner  for  Miss  Belvoir  to  beg  me  to  come  often  to 
see  her  as  we  made  our  farewells — “ if,”  she  added, 
with  a cool  little  smile,  “ your  sister  does  not  think 
it  would  interrupt  your  studies.” 


CHAPTER  VI 


At  Island  Court  Sylvia  made  no  allusion  to  Edward 
III.;  indeed,  she  had  not  then  discovered  him,  as  we 
returned  Mrs.  de  Braose’s  call  before  Miss  Belvoir’s. 
But  I do  not  think  she  would  have  brought  him  in,  in 
any  case,  for  Sylvia  had  a wonderful  instinct,  and 
Mrs.  de  Braose  would  not  have  cared  much  for  Ed- 
ward III. 

Sylvia  had  begged  me  not  to  try  for  wit,  but  she 
could  be  amusing  in  her  own  way,  and  she  made  Mrs. 
de  Braose  laugh  more  than  once.  As  we  were  walking 
through  the  hothouses,  the  old  lady  said  to  me — 

“ Your  sister  is  a genius.  She  has  a genius  for 
classes — I don’t  mean  Sunday-school  classes.  The 
smallest  shade  doesn’t  escape  her.  Is  she  much  older 
than  you?  ” 

“ Twenty  minutes,”  I confessed  meekly. 

“ Dear ! And  one  would  say  she  had  been  ‘ out  ’ 
for  three  years  at  least.  Perhaps  she  has  not  lived 
lately  with  you ” 

“ Oh  yes!  She  has  never  been  away  from  us.  But 
Sylvia  is  very  clever.” 

“ I see  you’re  not;  but  I wouldn’t  mind,  if  I 
were  you.  The  gods  don’t  give  us  all  the  same 
gifts.” 

I blushed  a little,  and  the  sharp  old  woman  noted  it. 

“ You’re  not  savage  with  me,”  she  said,  “ for  say- 
ing you  were  not  clever  like  your  sister  ? Not  a bit ; I 
see  that.” 


43 


44  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  vi 

“ No,”  I said,  getting  redder,  “ but  she  is  my  sis- 
ter; my  twin,  you  know.” 

Mrs.  de  Braose  pinched  my  arm.  “ You’re  no  fool 
either,”  she  whispered,  for  Sylvia  was  coming  back 
to  us ; “ and  you  were  savage  because  you  didn’t  think 
I was  exactly  praising  her.  I like  that  much  better. 
Pins  and  needles  are  useful  things,  but  pincushions 
don’t  care  much  for  them.  I’m  not  a pincushion,  and 
Sylvia  is  uncommonly  amusing.  Don’t  you  try  to  be 
pinny,  though;  only  prick  folk  who  say  things  you 
don’t  like  about  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  You’ll 
never  be  a Sylvia : — Miss  Auberon,  I can’t  believe 
you’re  twins;  your  sister  is  five  years  younger  at 
least.” 

At  seventeen  Sylvia  had  no  objection  to  being 
thought  older  than  she  was,  and  she  smiled  affection- 
ately at  me. 

“ Madge  is  our  baby,”  she  said.  “ Our  brother  is 
younger  than  us  both,  but  he  really  comes  between  us 
two.” 

“ I haven’t  seen  him.  Which  is  he  like?  ” 

“ He  isn’t  like  either  of  us.  There’s  a miniature  at 
Cross  Place  that  is  just  like  him;  it  is  the  portrait  of 
Lady  Drumm,  the  mother  of  the  Sir  Stapleton  you 
knew.  It’s  odd  how  likenesses  crop  up  again  in  fam- 
ilies, for  she  is  only  our  great-great-grandmother.  But 
she  has  Peterkin’s  chocolate-brown  eyes  and  hair  and 
his  cream  complexion — to  say  nothing  of  his  nose.” 

“ Why,”  asked  Mrs.  de  Braose,  “ are  we  to  say 
nothing  of  his  nose?” 

“ Least  said  soonest  mended,”  my  sister  replied, 
smiling. 

“ Sylvia,”  Mamma  protested  mildly,  “ don’t  be  un- 


ch.  vi]  MONKSBRIDGE  45 

just.  Perkin  has  a beautiful  mouth — such  a sweet 
expression,  Mrs.  de  Braose.” 

Sylvia  looked  up  at  young  Mr.  Eustace  de  Braose 
and  smiled  again.  He  was  not  the  squire,  but  a much 
younger  brother,  and  not  more  than  one  and  twenty. 
He  had  lately  been  appointed  attache  to  the  British 
Legation  at  Lisbon,  where  the  Minister  was  Lord  Chil- 
mark,  Mrs.  de  Braose’s  brother.  He  was  as  thin  as  his 
mother  was  fat,  and  about  two  feet  taller ; all  the  same 
he  was  like  her,  as  she  now  remarked. 

“ Eustace  is  like  me,”  she  said,  “ or  I was  like  him, 
forty  years  ago,  but  better  looking.  Do  you  still  think 
you  would  like  to  live  on  an  island,  Miss  Auberon, 
now  you’ve  seen  mine  ? ” 

“ It  is  prettier  even  than  I expected,  and  much 
larger.”  And  Sylvia  went  on  praising  it  in  detail,  as, 
indeed,  it  deserved,  but  she  said  nothing  about  living 
on  islands  at  present. 

The  house,  built  of  grey  stone,  was  very  old,  in  the 
Tudor  style,  but  had  been  restored  by  its  present  owner ; 
it  was  raised  well  above  the'  river,  on  terraces  with 
stone  balustrades,  and  was  much  more  imposing  than 
Cross  Place,  and  about  twice  as  big,  though  not  large. 
The  gardens  were  beautiful,  as  was  our  own,  but 
they  looked  as  if  it  would  take  a good  many  gardeners 
to  keep  them  in  order.  A chronic  boy,  a man  three 
days  in  the  week,  and  Mrs.  Auberon  and  her  daughters 
looked  after  ours. 

“ Your  sister  has  perfect  taste,”  Mrs.  de  Braose  said 
to  me,  very  amiably,  as  we  went  along  one  of  the  river- 
walks.  “She  praises  excellently;  it’s  an  art  in  itself. 
When  I go  anywhere  I can  only  see  the  things  that 
want  altering — and  it’s  hard  not  to  mention  them.” 


46 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  VI 


Sylvia  was  barely  out  of  earshot,  for  though  she 
walked  with  Mr.  de  Braose,  she  constantly  paused  to 
admire  something,  or  to  ask  our  hostess  some  question, 
and  so  we  were  never  far  behind,  and  never  once  out 
of  sight.  She  held  Mamma  lightly  by  an  arm,  without 
leaning  on  it;  so  thus  I had  Mrs.  de  Braose  to  myself. 
When  her  son  had  moved  on,  Mamma  had  seemed 
about  to  fall  back  on  us,  and  it  was  then  that  Sylvia, 
without  pausing  in  the  remark  she  was  making,  had 
just  laid  her  hand  behind  Mamma’s  elbow,  and  taken 
her  on  with  them.  Whatever  she  said  was  divided 
between  her  two  companions. 

All  this  Mrs.  de  Braose  observed,  and  she  smiled  a 
little,  but  quite  approvingly. 

“ Your  sister,”  she  told  me,  “ is  an  artist  in  tact. 
I cannot  watch  her  without  admiration.” 

All  the  same  it  seemed  to  me  that  she  watched  her 
too  much. 

“ You  put  on  a queer  little  look  when  I praise  her,” 
she  said,  giving  my  arm  a pinch  that  did  not  hurt  in 
the  least.  “ I’m  sure  it’s  not  because  you’re  jeal- 
ous.” 

“Of  Sylvia?” 

“No,  my  dear;  I know  all  about  it.  It’s  be- 
cause  ” 

“Yes,  it  is,”  I interrupted.  “It’s  because  I’m  not 
sure  I understand  what  you  mean  when  you  praise 
her.” 

“ I admire  her  immensely.  She  is  a lovely  girl,  and 
her  manner  is  perfection;  but  I think  perfection  is 
thrown  away  on  me.  I ain’t  perfect,  you  know,  and  I 
can  only  do  with  a little  perfection  at  a time.  If  there 
were  a duke  here,  I’d  marry  him  to  her;  only  I’d  be 


MONKSBRIDGE 


47 


CH.  Vi] 

afraid  she  might  meet  an  emperor  afterwards  and  re- 
pent of  the  mesalliance.  Now  you’re  looking  queer 
again.  I’ve  no  tact,  have  I?  I think  what  I’ve  no 
business  to,  and  say  it  all  out.” 

As  I thought  she  did,  I said  nothing,  and  she  gave 
me  another  pinch. 

“ I like  you,  my  dear,  very  much.  And  it  amuses 
me  that  you  won’t  like  me.” 

“ I should  if ” 

“If  I’d  leave  Sylvia  alone?” 

“ Yes.  She’s  my  twin,  and ” 

But,  even  if  I had  quite  known  what  I wanted  to 
say,  I could  not  have  said  it,  for  Sylvia  and  the  others 
turned  back — or,  rather,  Sylvia  stopped  and  half 
turned  round,  so  that  Mamma  and  Mr.  de  Braose 
had  to  stop  too.  They  had  been  walking  quicker  than 
we  could,  for  Mrs.  de  Braose  was  too  fat  for  fast 
walking,  and  my  sister  seemed  quite  determined  not 
to  leave  us  behind. 

“ Why  don’t  you  young  people  move  on,”  cried  Mrs. 
de  Braose,  laughing,  “ and  leave  us  elders  to  follow 
at  our  own  pace?” 

Mamma,  who  was  about  half  the  old  lady’s  age,  pro- 
tested that  she  was  an  elder,  but  I think  she  smiled 
complacently  at  being  counted  among  the  young  people. 
Mamma  was  still  very  pretty,  and  had  quite  as  nice  a 
figure  as  Sylvia’s,  and,  though  I thought  it  rather  in- 
consistent of  Mrs.  de  Braose,  who  had  just  declared 
that  Sylvia  looked  so  much  older  than  me,  to  count  me 
among  the  elders,  it  rather  pleased  me  too. 

“ Madge,”  said  my  sister,  reflectively,  as  if  she  had 
been  considering  the  same  question,  “ is  our  baby,  and 
Peterkin  is  older  than  her  in  most  ways,  but  I think  it 


MONKSBRIDGE 


48 


[CH.  VI 


very  clever  of  you,  Mrs.  de  Braose,  to  count  her  among 
the  elders.  She  was  an  old  maid  at  ten.” 

She  smiled  on  us  both,  and  gave  us  both  the  same 
smile,  friendly  and  a little  patronizing.  Somehow  I 
felt  that,  in  spite  of  her  smile,  she  was  not  thoroughly 
pleased. 

As  we  all  went  indoors,  Mrs.  de  Braose  and  I were 
again  a little  behind  the  others,  and  she  said — 

“ She  snubbed  us  both,  and  you  hadn’t  done  a thing 
to  deserve  it.” 

Mrs.  de  Braose  never  whispered;  she  could  say 
things  in  a voice  that  sounded  quite  loud  without  let- 
ting any  one  hear  except  the  person  to  whom  she  meant 
to  be  confidential.  I did  not  appreciate  her  fondness 
for  being  confidential  to  me,  and  was  not  a bit  sure 
that  I should  like  her;  but,  all  the  same,  we  became, 
as  time  went  on,  very  intimate,  and  she  seemed  so 
determined  to  like  me,  that  I could  not  help  growing 
fond  of  her  too,  up  to  a point.  All  the  same,  I never 
became  reconciled  to  a certain  tone  of  hers  when  she 
talked  of  Sylvia,  as  she  was  never  tired  of  doing. 

What  often  struck  me  as  strange,  when  we  had  been 
a little  longer  at  Monksbridge,  was  that  my  sister,  who 
at  first  had  seemed  specially  pleased  with  Miss  Belvoir 
and  Mrs.  de  Braose,  did  not  advance  much  in  real 
intimacy  with  either  of  them;  whereas  I,  who  had  not 
taken  so  much  to  them  in  the  first  instance,  became 
fast  friends  with  both. 


CHAPTER  VII 


But,  on  the  other  hand,  I,  who  had  not  been  half  so 
alert  as  Sylvia  in  discerning  the  joke  afforded  by  Lord 
and  Lady  Monksbridge,  and  thought  them  merely  a 
good-natured  sort  of  elderly,  wealthy  people,  at  whom 
it  was  not  a social  duty  to  laugh,  never  became  at  all 
intimate  with  them;  while  my  sister,  in  reasonable 
time,  did  grow  into  quite  a marked  intimacy  with  the 
Llanthamy  Castle  circle. 

So  little  did  Mamma  or  I foresee  any  such  thing, 
that  we  both  felt  a little  nervous  as  we  drove  for  the 
first  time  to  Llanthamy  Castle.  We  were  secretly  half 
afraid  lest  Sylvia  should  quiz  our  host  and  hostess,  or 
be  “ gracious  ” to  an  extent  that  they  would  perceive 
and  resent. 

“ My  dear,”  Mamma  whispered,  and  I could  hear 
her  so  plainly  that  I was  glad  to  think  that  the  wind 
must  be  blowing  the  sound  away  from  the  gorgeous 
coachman  and  footman  high  in  the  air  behind  my  back 
— “ my  dear,  I think  it  was  very  kind  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Monksbridge  to  ask  us  to  luncheon  and  insist  on 
sending  their  carriage  for  us.” 

“ Kind?”  said  Sylvia,  lifting  her  eyebrows  coolly. 

“ Nice,  I mean.” 

“ Of  course  they  could  not  propose  sending  a car- 
riage without  asking  us  to  luncheon.  Even  they  would 
understand  that  they  could  not  offer  to  send  a car- 
riage for  us  to  return  their  call — in.” 

Sylvia  often  paused  before  adding  a final  preposi- 
49 


50 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  VII 


tion,  not  being  quite  sure  whether  it  were  necessary 
or  permissible,  and  Sylvia  never  did  impermissible  or 
needless  things. 

“ Flys  are  very  dear,”  Mamma  observed  meekly, 
anxious  to  avoid  argument  on  a point  she  felt  unable 
to  understand  like  Sylvia ; “ and  they  smell  so  of  sta- 
bles with  grooms  in  them.” 

“ I should  never  have  dreamt  of  returning  their  call 
in  a fly,”  my  sister  observed,  almost  absent-mindedly, 
as  people  do  when  they  hardly  think  a remark  is  worth 
answering  at  all,  and  without  giving  the  least  hint 
of  what  would  have  been  her  alternative.  As  Llan- 
thamy  Castle  is  three  miles  from  the  river  we  could 
not  have  rowed  there. 

“ This,”  said  Mamma,  still  in  her  dangerous  whis- 
per, “ is  their  best  carriage.  I’ve  seen  Lady  Monks- 
bridge  shopping  (in  a morning,  I admit)  in  a much 
smaller  one — a one-horse  brougham,  though  it  has  a 
back  seat.” 

“ Of  course,”  Sylvia  declared,  with  perfect  confi- 
dence, not  so  much  in  Lady  Monksbridge  as  in  our- 
selves, “ she’d  never  have  dreamt  of  sending  that  for 

„ yy 

US. 

Her  tone  distinctly  implied : “ She’d  know  better. 
I’d  like  to  catch  her  at  it.” 

All  this  made  us  rather  nervous.  It  proclaimed 
such  an  unyielding  spirit.  If  Sylvia  chose  to  be  for- 
midable, who  could  stop  her?  Certainly  neither 
Mamma  nor  I.  And  how  would  Lord  and  Lady 
Monksbridge  like  it? 

But  we  had  not  yet  half  learned  how  clever  she  was. 

She  had  certainly  almost  smiled  openly  as  her  eyes 
fell  on  the  brilliant  liveries,  on  the  powder  as  deep 


MONKSBRIDGE 


5i 


CH.  VIl] 

almost  as  snow-drifts,  and  on  the  colossal  coat-of- 
arms,  supporters,  and  coronet,  when  she  came  out  of 
our  front  door  to  get  into  the  carriage,  where  Mamma 
and  I were  already  seated — I,  of  course,  with  my  back 
to  the  horses.  And  she  took  her  place  with  so  obvious 
a condescension  that  the  tall  young  man  holding  the 
carriage  door  open  for  her  had  been  instantly  and 
permanently  impressed.  Mamma  and  I had  not  im- 
pressed him  at  all;  he  and  the  coachman  had  both 
looked  as  if  they  thoroughly  understood  that  we  had 
no  carriage  of  our  own;  but  after  Sylvia  had  come 
down,  they  had  the  air  of  believing  in  innumerable 
splendid  equipages  of  ours. 

Sylvia  smiled  outright  as  we  entered  Llanthamy 
Park  by  a Gothic  lodge,  with  a portcullis  and  an  im- 
practicable drawbridge. 

“ The  trees,”  she  remarked,  scanning  the  extensive 
but  new  demesne,  “have  to  be  kept  in  cages  lest  they 
should  run  away  altogether.” 

“ Sylvia ! ” Mamma  protested ; but  really  her  whis- 
per was  far  more  audible  than  Sylvia’s  low  voice. 

“ They’re  not,”  I remarked  wittily,  “ cages,  but 
cradles — far  more  appropriate  to  infancy.” 

Sylvia  continued  to  look  about  her  without  seeming 
to  notice  this  sally,  but  presently  recalled  her  inter- 
ested gaze,  and  turned  her  pretty  head  gravely  in  my 
direction  with  a conjectural  sort  of  look,  as  though  I 
had  asked  what  ninety-seven  times  eleven  was,  and 
she  was  vaguely  wondering,  or  as  if,  without  previous 
intimation  of  indisposition,  I had  broken  a blood- 
vessel, and  she  were  trying  to  imagine  what  I had 
done  it  for. 

But  if  she  thought  of  me,  she  did  not  speak  of  me. 


52 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  VII 

“ I suppose  the  trees  will  grow  up,”  she  said  tol- 
erantly, “ and  then  it  will  be  a park.  The  ground  is 
well-shaped,  and  I think  they  were  wrong  to  plant 
these  single  trees  at  all ; little  thickets,  here  and  there, 
would  have  looked  nice  almost  from  the  first,  and 
would  have  been  cover  too.  When  there  is  as  much 
ground  as  this  ” — she  paused  and  looked  round  again — 
“ six  or  eight  hundred  acres,  I’m  sure — trees  don’t 
matter  much,  especially  when  there’s  a lake  like  that; 
it  is  so  curved,  and  lies  in  such  a hollow  that  it  must 
seem  like  a river  in  places;  but  very  young  trees, 
elms  and  oaks,  have  an  uncomfortable  effect — al- 
most like  a recitation,  or  one  of  Madge’s  leaps  at 
wit.” 

The  park  was  really  not  eight  hundred,  but  a thou- 
sand, acres,  and  we  were  quite  a long  time  before  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  house.  Sylvia  was,  I saw,  on 
the  look-out  for  it. 

“ It  is,”  she  admitted,  after  considering  it  for  sev- 
eral minutes,  as  it  appeared  in  the  distance,  at  the  end 
of  a long  valley  on  a steepish  rising  ground,  “ really 
a castle,  though  a new  one.” 

“ You  mean,”  I said,  “ that  it  is  big.”  I remem- 
bered her  original  scorn  of  new  castles,  and  also  her 
recent  allusion  to  my  wit. 

“ A little  castle  is  quite  ridiculous,”  she  remarked, 
not  at  all  as  noticing  my  critical  tone,  but  merely  as 
one  obliging  the  public  with  facts. 

“If  all  new  castles  are  sins,  the  bigger  the  castle 
the  bigger  the  sin,”  I observed  with  what  I took  for 
consistency.  Nothing  could  show  my  inferiority  in 
point  of  age  to  my  sister  more  plainly  than  the  fatal 
stand  I was  constantly  taking  on  consistency. 


ch.  vii]  MONKSBRIDGE  53 

“ My  dear,”  Mamma  interposed,  with  pacific  protest, 
“ how  can  a castle  be  sinful  ? ” 

“ Marjory  is  aiming  at  sprightliness,”  Sylvia  ex- 
plained coolly,  and  continued  her  survey  of  the  huge 
pile  in  front  of  us.  “ At  this  distance,”  she  observed, 
“ it  would  not  look  new — if  one  did  not  know  it.  In 
this  moist  climate  it  will  soon  look  old.  I am  afraid 
the  gardens  must  seem  rawer  than  the  house — we 
shall  see.” 

The  road  now  ran  along  the  valley,  where  there 
were  no  young  trees,  but  only  patches  of  gorse  and 
bracken,  and  my  sister  slightly  nodded  her  head  in 
calm  approval.  You  might  have  supposed  that  we 
were  invited  solely  that  Lord  Monksbridge  might  be 
sustained  by  her  favourable  judgment.  I had  almost 
to  pinch  myself  to  remember  that  it  was  only  fourteen 
weeks  since  we  had  heard  of  Cross  Place  being  ours; 
Sylvia  had  the  air  of  silently  comparing  Llanthamy 
Castle  with  all  the  ducal  or  baronial  residences  famil- 
iar to  her  from  a distant  childhood. 

The  road  now  turned  a pretty  sharp  corner,  and  for 
some  minutes  we  could  not  see  the  castle ; at  the  next 
turning  it  came  in  full  view  again,  standing  high  over 
a lake,  edged  with  tall  osmunda  fern,  in  which  all  its 
towers  were  reflected. 

“ The  site  was  chosen  well,”  Sylvia  informed  us ; 
“ there  was  taste  somewhere — perhaps  it  was  the 
architect.” 

“ The  architect,”  I suggested,  “ was  perhaps  a peer 
of  medieval  creation.” 

Mamma’s  common  sense  rushed  forward  again  with 
an  olive  branch  in  its  beak. 

“ My  dear,  they  are  never  people  of  title,”  she  said, 


54 


M0NKSBR1DGE 


[ch.  VII 

with  a little  frown.  I quite  understood  that  Sylvia’s 
calm  approval  of  Llanthamy  Castle  relieved  her  mind, 
and  that  she  thought  it  behoved  me  to  accept  it  in  the 
same  spirit.  How  awkward  it  would  have  been  for  us 
both  had  Sylvia  been  formidable! 

The  hill  above  the  lake  was  too  steep  for  a car- 
riage-road, and  we  now  turned  away  to  the  right,  and 
another  side  of  the  castle  was  seen,  presenting  nearly 
as  imposing  a front  as  the  other;  at  one  end  of  it 
were  a few  inconsiderable  ruins  rising  out  of  a thicket 
of  ancient  thorns. 

“ Ah ! ” said  Sylvia,  “ I understand.  There  was  a 
castle  here,  and  the  new  one  only  carries  on  the  old 
name.  That  makes  a great  difference.”  And  she 
spoke  as  though  removing  a stain  from  the  character 
of  Lord  Monksbridge.  For  a few  moments  she  was 
silent;  then,  almost  severely,  she  added,  “ Mrs.  de 
Braose  never  mentioned  that.” 

“ Mrs.  de  Braose  did  not  ask  you  to  laugh  at  him,” 
I reminded  her ; “ she  only  wanted  to  do  it  herself.” 

“ Your  hat,”  Sylvia  told  me,  “ is  crooked.  There 
are  heads  on  which  no  amount  of  pins  will  hold  a hat 
straight.” 

The  justice  of  this  criticism  I could  not  impeach, 
and  I could  only  tug  at  my  hat  desperately. 

“ It  was  too  much  that  way  already,”  my  sister 
remarked;  “ it  will  be  back  to  front  if  you  go  on.” 


CHAPTER  VIII 


We  had  feared  lest  our  Sylvia  should  be  formidable 
or  too  crushingly  gracious;  but  she  was  neither.  At 
the  huge  entrance-door  a butler  and  two  more  footmen 
received  us;  the  footmen  were  deeply  powdered,  and 
the  butler  had  no  hair  to  speak  of  at  all.  All  three 
had  the  air  of  receiving  habitually,  not  angels  una- 
wares, but  ducal  personages,  with  full  but  unmoved 
knowledge  of  their  rank.  The  manner  of  the  foot- 
men was  stony,  and  that  of  the  butler  beef-and-port- 
winey;  but  in  all  these  cases  it  expressed  acquiescence 
in  Sylvia,  and  toleration  of  us  as  belonging  to  her. 

The  outer  hall  was  an  armoury,  and  the  inner  hall 
looked  like  a cathedral  into  which  a number  of  sheep- 
ish statues  had  lost  their  way  without  the  monuments 
they  belonged  to. 

Lord  Monksbridge  was  visible  at  the  choir-end  of 
the  cathedral,  where  the  stalls  and  altar  should  have 
been,  and  he  came  a step  or  two  to  meet  us. 

“ I was  merely,”  he  said,  “ crossing  the  hall,  but  am 
delighted  that  it  happened  at  this  moment.” 

Sylvia  perfectly  understood  that  he  was  in  full  re- 
membrance of  his  Lord  Lieutenancy,  and  that  it  would 
not  be  quite  loyal  to  the  Sovereign  to  let  us  suppose 
he  had  come  forth  to  meet  us;  and  by  infection  (I  was 
always  notoriously  open  to  infection)  I understood  it 
too.  Mamma,  who  was  immune  from  infection,  did 
not  follow  the  workings  of  his  mind  in  the  least.  It 
never  dawned  upon  her  that  his  little  speech  was  a 

55 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  VIII 


56 

familiar  formula,  and  that  he  was  often  discovered 
by  expected  guests  in  the  hall.  He  did  not  really  take 
us  to  the  drawing-room  himself,  but  merely  joined  the 
cortege,  the  butler  still  leading  on,  the  footmen  skir- 
mishing on  our  flank.  The  drawing-room  door  was 
under  an  arched  recess  that  should  have  led  to  a side- 
chapel,  and  the  butler  threw  it  open  with  the  air  of 
saying,  “ I can’t  help  what’s  inside.  You’ll  be  dis- 
appointed, but  it’s  not  my  fault.” 

Only  Lady  Monksbridge  seemed  to  be  inside;  and 
she  really  did  not  seem  enough.  The  room  was  as  like 
the  hall  as  a calf  is  like  a cow,  and  far  too  big,  and 
too  Gothic;  even  the  armchairs  looked  like  episcopal 
thrones,  and  the  footstools  were  prayerful.  There 
were  three  enormous  fireplaces,  one  at  each  end  and 
one  in  the  middle,  and  each  of  them  had  its  cow  and 
its  goose,  carved  in  white  stone  and  supporting  a 
carved  shield  that  Goliath  would  have  fallen  under; 
over  all  was  the  coronet  that  would  have  fitted  Giant 
Blunderbore’s  head.  All  the  same  it  was  a fine  room, 
and  the  view  through  the  windows  was  fine  too. 

Lady  Monksbridge  rustled  forward — her  silks  were 
always  too  stiff  and  noisy — and  a young  man  arose 
from  a seat  where  he  had  been  hidden  behind  her  and 
also  came  to  meet  us.  You  could  see  in  a moment  he 
was  her  son,  and  he  was  like  his  father  too;  but  he 
was  very  tall  like  Lady  Monksbridge,  and  he  was  dis- 
tinctly handsome,  which  my  lord  had  given  over  being 
if  he  had  ever  begun. 

It  was  the  Lord  Lieutenant  who  introduced  Mr. 
Monk  to  my  mother,  and  he  was  going  to  introduce 
him  to  Sylvia,  but  they  smiled,  and  the  young  man 
said — 


MONKSBRIDGE 


57 


CH.  VIII] 

“ We  met  yesterday — at  Prior’s  House.” 

“ Yes,  you  told  me,”  said  his  mother.  Sylvia  had 
not  told  us;  she  had  gone  alone  to  Prior’s  House  to 
explain  how  her  headaches  would  prevent  her  from 
accepting  the  vicar’s  invitation  to  take  a Sunday- 
school  class,  and  had  only  mentioned  on  her  return 
that  she  had  promised  I should  take  one  instead.  She 
had  been  away  quite  a long  time. 

“ It  would  not  do,”  she  had  explained,  “ to  make 
a hurried  visit  when  one  went  to  refuse  a favour.” 

“ But  you  didn’t.  You  offered  up  me”  I had  re- 
minded her. 

“ Oh,”  she  pointed  out,  “ it  was  me  he  wanted.  Of- 
fering you  instead  was  a refusal.” 

She  and  Mr.  Monk  were  quite  intimate;  she  was 
not  a bit  “ gracious,”  but  treated  him  as  an  equal,  in 
spite  of  the  cows  and  geese  and  coronets  all  over  the 
place.  And  I suddenly  thought  I understood  why  she 
had  criticized  the  park,  and  the  castle,  and  the  trees, 
with  such  unprejudiced,  almost  optimistic,  candour. 
She  admired  the  view,  and  both  gentlemen  led  her  to 
a window  to  see  it  better. 

“ What  charming  old  gardens ! ” I heard  her  say. 
And  I had  never  till  then  realized  how  clever  my  sis- 
ter was;  the  gardens  were  really  old,  and  the  only 
things  (except  the  ruins,  invisible  from  the  windows) 
about  the  place  that  were  not  new. 

“Yes,”  said  Mr.  Monk,  “they  are  old;  when  my 
grandfather  bought  this  place  there  was  a small  coun- 
try-house adjoining  the  ruins,  and  the  gardens  were 
here  already.” 

“ I merely  extended  and  improved  them,”  said  my 
lord. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


58 


[CH.  VIII 


“ To  extend  and  improve,”  said  Sylvia,  a little 
graciously,  “ is  harder  than  to  create.  It  is,”  with 
grave  decision,  “ a stronger  test  of  taste.” 

Lord  Monksbridge  bowed  quite  meekly,  and  sub- 
mitted, once  and  for  all,  to  Sylvia’s  serene  patronage. 
Mr.  Monk  looked  a little  amused,  but  no  doubt  he 
admired  my  sister.  After  all,  one  isn’t  one’s  father, 
especially  when  one  has  been  to  Eton  and  Christ 
Church,  and  Sylvia  did  not  patronize  him. 

“ I hope,”  Lady  Monksbridge  observed,  “ that  the 
carriage  came  in  good  time.  I said  half-past  twelve.” 
Perhaps  she  thought  that  her  lord  had  submitted  too 
readily  to  my  sister. 

“ Oh  yes ! It  was  so  kind  of  you,”  said  Mamma. 

“ Quite  in  time,”  said  Sylvia;  “ I’m  afraid  I kept  it 
waiting.  I’m  always  late.”  (I  stared,  as  this  was 
rather  a libel  on  herself.)  “ That’s  because  we  gen- 
erally go  about  in  flys,  and  it  doesn’t  matter  whether 
they  wait  or  not.” 

I stared  again;  but  my  sister  was  much  cleverer, 
need  I say,  than  I,  and  Lady  Monksbridge  collapsed. 
She  had  very  often  to  send  carriages  for  us  in  the 
future,  but  she  never  again  asked  if  they  had  arrived 
in  good  time. 

Mr.  Monk  seemed  again  to  be  amused,  but,  per- 
haps, less  pleased.  I fancy  he  was  fonder  of  his 
mother  than  of  his  father;  still  he  evidently  admired 
Sylvia’s  great  social  capacity. 

“ I wonder,”  said  Lady  Monksbridge,  hastily,  “ if 
luncheon  is  ready  ? ” 

“ They,”  said  my  lord,  as  if  arguing  a point,  “ will 
announce  it  when  it  is.” 

Mr.  Monk  looked  less  amusedly  at  ease,  and  began 


ch.  vm]  MONKSBRIDGE  59 

to  talk  to  Sylvia  as  if  carrying  on  some  discussion 
of  yesterday. 

“ Miss  Auberon,”  he  said  to  his  father,  “ is  an  im- 
pregnable Tory.  I tried  for  half  an  hour  to  convert 
her,  but  she  is  converting  me.” 

Lord  Monksbridge  smiled,  and  looked  as  if  he 
would  not  much  mind  the  future  peer  being  a Tory; 
he  couldn’t  very  well  be  converted  himself,  the  geese 
and  cows  were  too  new. 

“ I never  met  a Radical  before,”  my  sister  explained. 
“ All  my  life  I have  been  in  the  opposite  camp.” 

Mamma,  who  knew  as  much  about  politics  as  I did, 
tried  not  to  look  surprised ; but  Lord  and  Lady  Monks- 
bridge understood  at  once  that  Sylvia  had  been  bred  up 
among  the  great  Tory  magnates  of  the  land. 

“ It  is,”  she  added,  “ a question  of  tradition.” 

And  a vista  of  long  centuries  of  Toryism  behind 
Miss  Auberon  caused  our  Liberal  host  and  hostess  to 
regard  her  with  deepening  respect. 

At  this  moment  luncheon  was  announced,  and  our 
further  enlightenment  as  to  Sylvia’s  hereditary  poli- 
tics was  postponed.  Crossing  the  cathedral  we  passed 
into  a sort  of  chapter-house,  octagonal  as  to  its  main 
portion,  with  a tall  mullioned  window  in  each  of  its 
sides;  the  lower  portion  of  them  was  filled  with  plain 
glass,  but  the  upper  part  was  enriched  with  stained 
glass.  There  was  the  signing  of  Magna  Charta,  re- 
sembling a tablecloth;  Cromwell  removing  the  bauble; 
the  Bill  of  Rights  being  passed,  etc. 

The  stone  walls  were  unpapered,  and  the  groined 
roof  had  a pendent  boss  in  the  middle,  on  which, 
carved,  painted,  and  gilded,  were  the  Monksbridge 
arms,  coronet  and  supporters.  For  the  convenience 


6o 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  VIII 


of  those  who  did  not  care  to  lie  on  their  backs  to 
admire  them,  these  were  repeated  much  larger  over 
the  fireplace,  which  stood  back  under  a wide  arch. 

Lord  Monksbridge  said  grace — to  the  butler  and 
footmen,  so  to  speak.  And  we  began  to  eat  and  talk. 

“ I hope,”  said  our  hostess  to  Mamma,  “ that  you 
like  Monksbridge  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes;  very  much.  We  like  it  extremely.” 

“ For  a place  of  the  kind  there  is  a good  deal  of 
pleasant — ur — society,”  said  my  lord. 

“ It  seems  a friendly  little  place,”  Sylvia  observed 
tolerantly,  as  if  it  would  be  unfair  to  expect  much 
socially.  Her  placid  grandeur  made  me  giddy,  and  it 
acted  on  Mamma  like  an  opiate;  I am  sure  I saw 
her  rub  her  eyes. 

Sylvia  turned  to  Mr.  Monk.  “ There  are  little 
samples  of  different  sorts  of  society,”  she  told  him. 
“ That  is  rather  amusing ; we  range  down  from  dow- 
ager peeresses  to  dowager  curatesses.” 

Our  sister  often  availed  herself  of  little  sayings  of 
Peterkin’s  when  she  thought  them  worth  using;  she 
was  much  too  large-minded  to  deny  herself  a useful 
thing  because  it  had  originally  belonged  to  a context 
she  disapproved. 

“ You  know  Lady  Llantwddwy  ? ” said  Lord 
Monksbridge.  “ She  is  quite  grande  dame.”  He  pro- 
nounced it  as  if  he  meant  she  were  a certified  grand- 
mother. 

“Oh  yes;  she  called  yesterday,”  Mamma  was  begin- 
ning; but  Sylvia  choked  her  off  at  the  first  syllable  of 
“ yesterday.” 

“ She  is  an  old  family  acquaintance,”  she  remarked 
lightly,  alluding  no  doubt  to  Lady  Llantwddwy’s  hav- 


ch.  viii]  MONKSBRIDGE  61 

ing  known  Sir  Stapleton.  “ Madge  and  I are  the 
fourth  generation  of  our  family  she  has  known.” 

As  for  me  I was  hungry,  and  minded  my  luncheon ; 
Mamma  always  ate  very  little  and  Sylvia  seemed  to, 
but  while  she  appeared  to  be  only  talking,  she  noted 
perfectly  anything  she  thought  good.  She  had  a 
singular  talent  for  guessing  how  it  must  be  made, 
and  she  could  teach  our  very  cheap  cook  how  to  make 
it  again. 

“ You  have,”  said  Lady  Monksbridge  to  me,  “ a 
brother,  I hear.  I only  heard  yesterday.”  Then  to 
Mamma,  “ You  must  excuse  my  not  having  invited 
him  to  come  with  you.” 

“ Oh,  Peterkin  is  a schoolboy,”  Sylvia  explained ; 
“ he  is  at  school  at  this  moment.  Abbot’s  School  is 
one  of  the  great  advantages  of  Monksbridge  for 
us.” 

“ The  education  is  good,”  Lord  Monksbridge  ad- 
mitted, but  with  an  air  of  reserve.  The  fact  was,  he 
much  wished  to  have  the  school  “ reformed  ” by  Par- 
liament. But  Mr.  Monk  did  not  want  a speech  on  the 
necessity  of  such  reforms,  and  chipped  in  rather 
hurriedly — 

“If  Peterkin  likes  fishing  I would  take  him  out  with 
me,”  he  said  good-naturedly. 

Mamma  was  much  pleased,  and  I began  to  like  Mr. 
Monk;  Sylvia  smiled,  partly  as  though  acknowledging 
a compliment  to  herself,  and  partly  as  though  she 
thought  Perkin  had  better  mind  his  book. 

“ Hampden,”  said  Lady  Monksbridge,  looking  at 
her  son  admiringly,  “ fishes  so  beautifully.  He  al- 
ways catches  such  a great  many.” 

Mr.  Monk  had  been  called  after  John  Hampden  out 


62  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  viii 

of  patriotism,  not  because  of  any  family  connection 
with  the  Earl  of  Buckinghamshire. 

Thus  began  our  acquaintance  with  the  Monksbridge 
family,  destined  to  ripen  into  a considerable  intimacy. 
That  the  intimacy  would  follow  I think  I perceived 
even  on  that  day,  for  Mr.  Monk  clearly  wished  it,  and 
Sylvia  was  not  opposed  to  him.  Lord  Monksbridge, 
too,  evidently  thought  her  (and  us,  for  her  sake) 
worth  cultivating.  Lady  Monksbridge,  perhaps,  was 
less  inclined  to  succumb  to  my  sister  and  less  satisfied 
to  see  her  son’s  inclination  that  way;  but  she  always 
did  what  he  wanted,  and  by  this  time  I was  aware  that 
a mere  Lady  Monksbridge  had  no  chance  at  all  against 
Sylvia. 


CHAPTER  IX 


“ Well,”  asked  Perkin  that  night,  “ did  we  sit  on  the 
lowly  nobility  of  Llanthamy  Castle? ” 

“ Anything  but,”  I assured  him,  with  sprightly 
metaphor ; “ we  were  sweet  as  honey  in  the  honey- 
comb.” 

Sylvia  looked  across  the  table  with  languid  inat- 
tention that  would  not  even  feign  interest. 

“ Of  what,”  demanded  our  brother,  “ does  the  no- 
bility consist  ? ” 

“ Why,”  Sylvia  suggested,  “ not  say  ‘ the  quality  ’ ? 
We  should  know  then  in  what  circles  you  had  culled 
your  flowers  of  rhetoric.” 

“ It  consists,”  I told  him,  “ of  a papa  and  a 
mamma,  and  an  heir  apparent.” 

“ My  dear,”  pleaded  Mamma,  “ I am  sure  Mr.  Monk 
is  very  pleasant.” 

“ Does  Sylvia  say  he  isn’t  ? ” asked  Perkin. 

“ Anything  but,”  I said  again  significantly. 

“ He  wants  you  to  fish  with  him,”  Mamma  explained 
hastily. 

“ ‘ He  fishes  beautifully,’  ” quoth  I,  and  Sylvia 
smiled.  She  did  not  at  that  time  at  all  object  to  my 
imitating  Lady  Monksbridge.  Perkin  was  a little 
puzzled  by  us  all. 

“ What’s  it  mean  ? ” he  asked  me  afterwards  in 
private.  “ Sylvia  seemed  to  think  these  humble  crea- 
tures were  to  be  taught  their  place.” 

“ Ah,  but  she  hadn’t  seen  it  then.” 

63 


64 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  IX 


“ * Succumstances  alters  cases,’  ” said  my  vulgar 
brother,  “ as  the  railway  guard  remarked  when  he’d 
drunk  the  champagne  and  filled  the  bottles  up  with 
water.” 

“ Still,  I don’t  understand  it,”  I confessed.  “ You 

know  she  has  her  principles ” 

“ As  the  lawyer  said  who’d  boned  the  lady’s 
interest.” 

“Did  he?  Well,  she  has.  And  I never  thought 
she  would  abandon  the  ‘ family  ’ notion.” 

“ ‘ Blood  ’ and  that  ? ” 

“ Yes.  Of  course  these  people  are  as  rich  as  Croesus. 
But,  really,  I thought  she  would  not  dispense  with — 
‘blood.’  And  I think  she  means  us  to  be  as  thick  as 
thieves  with  Llanthamy  Castle.” 

“ Well,  if  the  fishing’s  good ” 

“ Sylvia  doesn’t  care  tuppence  for  fishing.  It’s  Mr. 
Monk.  You  see,  he’s  a gentleman.  Not  that  I don’t 
like  his  mother  just  as  well  myself;  and  Lord  Monks- 

bridge — he’s  not  like  Mr.  Monk;  but ” 

“ A good  sort?  ” 

“ Yes.  Only  Sylvia  would  not  care  about  that.” 
Sylvia  never  explained  herself;  she  always  took  it 
for  granted  we  would  take  her  for  granted.  So,  for  a 
long  time,  I wondered  (and  perhaps  Mamma  did). 
But  gradually  we  came  to  understand ; and  we,  some- 
how or  other,  absorbed  the  idea  that  every  one  of  any 
importance  has  a mission.  It  was  Sylvia’s  to  devote 
herself  to  a work.  She  did  not  consider  teaching 
Sunday-schools,  or  carrying  coal-tickets  to  stuffy  old 
women,  works  at  all  suited  to  her  genius;  her  genius 
was  not  parochial. 


ch.  ix]  MONKSBRIDGE  65 

“ That,”  she  told  Mamma,  “ might  do  for  Madge. 
She  will  probably  marry  a rector.” 

“ I,”  pleaded  Mamma,  “ married  a curate.” 

“Yes,  dear,  temporarily;  but  had  papa  lived  he 
would  have  been  an  archdeacon:  ‘Archdeacon  Au- 
beron  ’ — it  sounds  so  natural.  Madge’s  rector  may  be 
an  archdeacon  too — it  would  do  for  her  very  well; 
but  my  tastes  are  quite  different.  It  is  not  everybody 
who  really  knows  how  to  spend  a large  income;  rich 
people  are  often  so  stupid  that  they  might  as  well 
be  poor.  I should  know  exactly  how  to  be  rich;  no 
income  would  be  wasted  in  my  hands.  And  rank — it 
is  often  throwm  away ; I hate  waste.  When  I see  some 
people  with  more  money  than  they  know  what  to  do 
with,  and  with  a position  that  they  make  ridiculous, 
I long  to  set  them  right.  Of  course  one  cannot  marry 
everybody.” 

Mamma  stared  a little  and  murmured  a timid  ac- 
quiescence. 

“ You  may  marry  my  archdeacon  if  you  like,”  I 
declared  ungratefully. 

“ No.  I should  not  care  to  be  an  archdeaconess.” 

“Nor  should  I.” 

“ That,”  said  my  sister,  whom  no  petulance  ever 
moved,  “ is  not  the  point.  It  is  what  you  could  do 
pretty  well.  I cannot  marry  all  the  rich  people  with 
titles  that  they  seem  awkward  with;  I wish  I could. 
It  would  be  worth  the  trouble.” 

“ Lord  Monksbridge,”  I observed  pertly,  “ is  mar- 
ried already.” 

“ My  dear,”  cried  Mamma,  “ his  son  is  grown  up.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Sylvia,  calmly,  “ he’s  married  already; 
that’s  the  pity.  If  he  had  married  somebody  else  he 


66 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  IX 


might  be  five-and-twenty  years  nearer  to  what  must 
now  be  put  off  to  another  generation.  If  Lady  Monks- 

bridge  had  been  of  any  family,  and  clever ” 

“ I must  say,”  interrupted  Mamma,  “ I thought  her 
embroidery  beautiful.  Are  you  sure,  dear,  she  is  not 
clever?  ” 

“ Quite,”  said  Sylvia,  with  conviction.  “ An  excel- 
lent woman,  and  respectable  in  every  way.” 

“ They  seemed  to  me  an  attached  couple,”  Mamma 
remarked,  in  her  tentative  manner,  always  ready  to 
know  herself  wrong  if  Sylvia  said  so. 

“Attached!  Yes;  but  stupid.  One  as  bad  as  the 
other.  She  can  do  nothing  for  him,  and  he  can  do 
nothing  for  her.  If  she  had  been  a woman  of  family, 
and  known  what  to  do,  their  son  would  always  have 
been  thought  of  as  her  son,  and  passed  for  a man  of 
family  too.  No  one  would  have  remembered  Lord 
Monksbridge  at  all,  except  as  Mr.  Monk’s  father  and 
Lady  Monksbridge’s  husband;  as  it  is,  Mr.  Monk  has 
it  all  to  do  himself,  and  has  both  his  parents  on  his 
back.” 

She  paused  and  looked  meditatively  at  her  very 
pretty  feet. 

“ One’s  duties,”  she  remarked  presently,  “ some- 
times seem  so  clearly  thrown  in  one’s  way.” 

“ Ah,  dear,  your  poor  papa  often  said  that.  One 
need  not,  he  said,  go  searching  about  for  duties,  they 
were  to  be  found  close  at  hand.” 

Sylvia  always  listened  respectfully  to  Mamma’s 
quotations  of  our  father ; she  never  thought  of  him  as 
a hard-worked  curate,  but  as  the  bishop  he  might  have 
been  had  he  been  educated  at  Abbot’s  School,  and 
lived  longer. 


ch.  ix]  MONKSBRIDGE  6 7 

“ Papa  had  a very  correct  mind,”  she  said,  as 
though  acknowledging  his  approval  of  her  plans. 

I do  not  think  Mamma  understood  quite  so  soon  as 
I did  that  it  would  be  Sylvia’s  duty  to  rescue  the 
Monksbridge  title  and  wealth  from  absurdity  and 
waste.  But  she  liked  going  to  Llanthamy  Castle  bet- 
ter than  I did,  and  “ took  ” to  Lord  and  Lady 
Monksbridge  much  more,  especially  to  Lady  Monks- 
bridge. 

“ I don’t  quite  know,”  Mamma  confided  to  me, 
“ what  Sylvia  means  by  saying  Lady  Monksbridge  is 
stupid.  She  and  I get  always  on  so  well.  I find  her 
a friendly  creature,  and  I’m  sure  Mr.  Monk  thinks 
her  amusing — he  often  smiles  at  her  speeches,  and 
Sylvia  says  how  clever  he  is.  She  has  no  pretence, 
and  she  told  me  she  had  been  poor  enough  as  a girl; 
her  uncle,  who  left  her  all  his  great  wealth  at  last, 
took  no  notice  of  her,  and  thought  her  plain  and  dull 
— ‘ As  I was,’  she  confessed,  so  simply.  He  used  to 
snub  her,  and  she  did  not  enjoy  staying  at  his  big 
house  a bit ; he  would  invite  the  county  people,  and  she 
never  knew  how  to  behave  towards  them.  ‘ You’re 
my  niece,’  he  used  to  say,  ‘ and  I could  buy  half  a 
dozen  of  them  up.  You  should  assert  yourself;  if  you 
can’t  do  the  honours  properly,  you’d  better  stop  away.’ 
And  he  let  her  stop  away  a long  time.  But  Lord 
Monksbridge  and  she  had  played  together  as  children 
— of  course  he  wasn’t  a lord  then,  nor  was  his  father 
a baronet ; but  they  played  together,  and  one  day  they 
played  at  weddings,  and  his  brother,  who  died,  was 
clergyman,  in  a night-gown — over  his  clothes,  of 
course — and  he  married  them.  And  he  said,  ‘ It’s 
done  now;  and  mind  you  both  stick  to  it.’  And  long 


68 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XX 


afterwards,  when  the  brother  was  dead,  and  Lord 
Monksbridge’s  father  had  been  made  a baronet,  Lord 
Monksbridge  (only  he  was  not  a lord  yet)  came  to  her 
and  said,  ‘ Joe  said  we  were  to  stick  to  it,  and  I want  to 
— will  you  ? ’ She  was  five-and-twenty  then,  and  not  a 
bit  good  looking,  she  says ; but  she  had  never  cared  for 
anybody  except  him,  and  she  thanked  him.  ‘ I sup- 
pose,’ she  told  me,  ‘ a young  woman  shouldn’t  thank 
a young  fellow  for  sticking  to  it ; but  I did,  for  I was 
never  clever  enough  to  pretend  different  to  what  I felt, 
and  I thanked  him,  and  cried  too.’  So  they  were  mar- 
ried, and  when  his  father  died  she  became  my  lady, 
and  her  uncle  (who  was  a violent  Radical,  and  had 
never  married  because  Lady  Julia  Something  would 
not  have  him)  left  her  all  his  money.  ‘ I was  glad,’ 
the  good  creature  told  me,  ‘ for  my  husband’s  sake ; 
he  had  plenty  of  his  own,  but  I was  glad,  because  I 
thought  it  so  good  of  him  to  stick  to  it.’  ‘ So  it  was,’ 
I said ; and  then  I saw  how  uncivil  that  sounded.  But 
she  didn’t  notice,  and  squeezed  my  hand,  and  I went 
on,  ‘ I mean  it  was  nice  of  him  to  be  so  faithful;  but 
I’m  sure  he  could  not  have  done  better.’  ‘ Eh,  I don’t 
know,’  she  said.  ‘ I was  never  cut  out  for  a lord’s 
wife;  but  it  wasn’t  a lord  I was  thinking  of  when  we 
married,  and  he  says  no  one  could  suit  him  better. 
“ In  public,”  says  he,  “ we  have  to  live  up  to  it;  but  I’d 
never  be  so  comfortable  in  private  without  you.  You 
belong  to  the  old  days,  and  all  the  rest  of  them  are 
gone.  Even  Hampden  don’t  belong  to  them.  I have 
to  live  up  to  Hampden  generally,  but  you  and  me  are 
like  a pair  of  old  slippers.”  ’ That’s  what  Lady  Monks- 
bridge told  me  yesterday,  and  I don’t  quite  see  why 
Sylvia  calls  her  stupid.  But  perhaps  you’d  better  not 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  IX] 


69 


mention  it.  Sylvia  is  so  clever  herself;  she  is  more 
particular  than  I am.” 

“No,  Mamma,  I shan’t  mention  it;  and  I think 
Lady  Monksbridge  much  nicer  since  you  told  me.” 

“ Well,  dear,  we  can’t  all  be  so  clever  as  your  sister, 
and  sometimes  I like  a chat  like  this  with  you ; not  be- 
ing clever,  like  Sylvia,  you  understand  my  feelings 
better.” 

“ I don’t  think,”  I observed  carelessly,  “ Sylvia 
would  dislike  your  thinking  Lady  Monksbridge  nice. 
She  used  to  laugh  when  I imitated  her,  but  now  I don’t 
think  it  amuses  her.  And  I shall  not  imitate  her  any 
more.” 

“ No,  my  dear,  you  should  not  do  anything  your 
sister  doesn’t  like.” 

But  when  I said  I would  imitate  Lady  Monksbridge 
no  more,  I was  not  thinking  of  Sylvia.  After  Mam- 
ma’s story  of  his  “ sticking  to  it,”  I found  even  Lord 
Monksbridge  more  interesting. 


CHAPTER  X 


Peterkin  liked  being  at  Abbot’s  School  from  the 
very  first,  and  no  one  could  deny  that  Sylvia  had  been 
right  in  wanting  him  to  go  there.  The  education  was 
really  excellent,  and  Perkin  got  on  quickly.  He  was 
not  clever  in  Sylvia’s  way,  but,  in  some  other  ways,  he 
was  much  cleverer.  When  the  Warden  and  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon  paid  their  second  call,  the  Warden  told  Mamma 
that  “ Auberon  ” was  likely  to  do  well. 

“ Auberon  has  ability,”  he  said  in  his  large  manner, 
“ and  he  is  not  idle.  He  is  quick  and  alert ; his  intel- 
ligence is  above  the  average.  Putting  the  average  at, 
say,  sixty  (assuming  the  unit  to  be  a hundred),  I 
should  rate  his  intelligence  not  lower  than  eighty.” 

Dear  Mamma  was  delighted,  and  tried  to  look  as 
if  she  understood  about  the  unit  and  the  average. 

“ Certainly  eighty,”  the  Warden  continued,  frown- 
ing, but  not  severely.  “ One  may  say  eighty  already. 
We  may  hope  to  be  able  to  say  ninety  before 
long.” 

Mamma  smiled  again,  and  Mrs.  FitzSimon  looked 
as  generously  complacent  as  if  her  husband  had  in- 
vented Peterkin,  and  were  making  our  family  a pres- 
ent of  him  with  her  consent. 

“ Of  course,  when  I say  eighty,”  Dr.  FitzSimon 
went  on,  “ I am  speaking  all  round.  There  are  sub- 
jects in  which  one  might  put  him,  without  rashness, 
at  eighty-five,  or  say  84.55.  History,  exempli  gratia 
— Auberon  might  one  day  distinguish  himself  in  his- 

70 


ch.  x]  MONKSBRIDGE  71 

tory.  He  has — to  borrow  the  metaphor  of  the  bowl- 
ing-green— a bias  towards  history.” 

“ And  classics  ? ” inquired  Sylvia,  who  had  an  idea 
that  bishops  should  be  classical. 

“ In  classics,”  said  the  Warden,  not  looking  at  Syl- 
via, and  with  the  air  of  not  at  all  admitting  her  right 
to  talk  as  a parent,  “ in  classics  he  may  do  well,  too. 
It  is  early  to  say.  There  has  been  a defect  of  previous 
training.  In  classics  previous  training  is  of  first-rate 
importance.  I should  rank  it  at  ninety-five,  or  over.” 

“ Ninety-five,”  said  Mamma,  gratefully,  “ is  high 
for  a boy  of  his  age.” 

The  slightest  mention  of  any  figures,  even  of  a num- 
ber, reduced  her  to  imbecility.  But  the  Doctor 
thought  it  rather  pretty  in  a lady  to  be  a little  im- 
becile, and  smiled  indulgently. 

“ Auberon,”  he  added  to  her,  excluding  Sylvia  as 
much  as  possible,  “ may  do  well  in  classics.  He  has 
capacity,  and  taste;  and  he  is  not  indolent.  Without 
the  spur  of  much  emulation,  he  has  an  alertness  that 
almost  takes  its  place.  I cannot  perceive  emulation 
in  him — it  stands  low;  twenty  would  be  putting  it 
high.  A duller  boy  would  be  likely  to  feel  the  want 
of  it.  Emulation  often  saves  the  dull  boy.” 

“ Peterkin  is  not  dull,”  observed  Sylvia,  judicially, 
“ but  he  should  have  emulation.  Without  it,  others 
may  do  as  well  as  him.” 

I understood  perfectly  that  she  saw,  in  coldly  dis- 
approving imagination,  “ others  ” seizing  Perkin’s 
mitre. 

“ ‘ As  he,’  ” corrected  the  Warden.  “ That  is  true.” 
But  he  still  spoke  with  reserve,  as  if  he  resented  two 
parents  to  one  boy  whose  father  was  deceased. 


72 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[ch.  x 

“ In  mathematics,”  he  proceeded,  “ Auberon  is  not 
incapable.  He  lacks  no  capacity  in  any  of  our 

branches.”  And  the  Warden,  as  he  spoke  of  his 
branches,  assumed  a quite  umbrageous  look.  “ But  in 
mathematics  Auberon  is  not,  as  I hear,  strongly  inter- 
ested. Mr.  Pouncer,  who  presides  over  our  mathe- 
matical branch,  a Wrangler  himself,  does  not  report 
him  as  deeply  interested.” 

“ Mathematics,”  said  Sylvia,  calmly,  “ do  not  mat- 
ter so  much.” 

She  had  an  idea  that  bishops  need  not  be  mathe- 
matical. Mamma  looked  as  if  she  did  not  want  Perkin 
to  be  a Wrangler,  it  had  a truculent  sound;  but  she 
only  bowed,  and  adjusted  the  locket,  with  dear  papa’s 
miniature  in  it,  on  her  chain  bracelet,  with  a meek  and 
wistful  smile. 

Dr.  FitzSimon  looked  almost  fiercely  at  Sylvia,  and 
slowly  removed  his  gold  spectacles  to  do  so  with  the 
greater  emphasis — he  was  only  generally  aware  of 
the  public  through  them.  It  was  impossible  to  look 
thus  attentively  at  Sylvia  without  becoming  aware  that 
she  was  remarkably  pretty — more  than  pretty;  a girl 
with  a quite  uncommon  share  of  refined  and  delicate 
beauty.  Even  Mrs.  FitzSimon  could  see  he  was  be- 
coming reconciled  to  the  adoption  of  his  report  by 
two  female  parents,  and  I think  she  condemned  his 
weakness. 

“ And  why,”  she  inquired  pursily,  “ do  not  mathe- 
matics matter  so  much  ? ” 

Of  course  Sylvia  could  not  be  expected  to  know 
(though  she  usually  knew  everything)  that  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon had  been  a Miss  Calculus,  and  that  her  father 
was  not  only  Dean  of  Lambeth  at  that  moment,  but 


ch.  x]  MONKSBRIDGE  73 

had  owed  his  deanery  to  having  been  a Wrangler,  like 
Mr.  Pouncer. 

“ In  my  brother’s  career,”  Sylvia  replied  without 
hesitation,  “ they  would  not  be  of  the  least  consequence. 
In  diplomacy,  mathematics  do  not  matter  at  all.” 

She  did  not  really  for  a moment  intend  that  Perkin 
should  be  anything  but  a bishop;  but  she  was  deter- 
mined to  snub  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  and  the  beginnings  of 
diplomacy  have  more  eclat  than  the  tiresome  pre- 
liminaries that  even  an  Auberon  has  to  go  through 
before  donning  his  mitre.  The  Warden  was  still  ab- 
sorbing the  notion  that  Sylvia  was  the  best-looking 
young  lady  he  had  seen  for  a long  time,  and  he  sup- 
ported her  instead  of  thinking  of  his  duty  as  a 
husband.  After  all  if  he  had  not  been  able,  while  he 
still  wished  to  do  so,  to  snub  Miss  Auberon,  it  was 
ridiculous  that  Alicia  should  attempt  it. 

“ No,”  he  said,  “ in  diplomacy  it  is  more  important 
to  know  that  two  and  two  make  four  than  to  be 
enamoured  of  logarithms.” 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  almost  gasped.  The  Dean,  her 
father,  had  written  a book  on  logarithms.  The 
Warden  had  written  a book  on  the  Digamma,  and  per- 
haps he  felt  that  he  should  be  a dean  too.  She  half 
suspected  him  of  it;  or  rather,  she  knew  he  meant 
to  be  a dean,  and  was  tempted  to  think  his  impatience 
made  him  jealous.  She  was  several  years  the 
Warden’s  junior,  and  it  was  a fact  that  her  father 
had  got  his  Deanery  before  he  had  quite  reached  Dr. 
FitzSimon’s  present  age. 

I was  rather  glad  Sylvia  had  routed  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon; one  naturally  cares  more  for  one’s  sister  than 
for  a woman  who  wears  orange  gloves  and  ribbons 


74 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  X 


with  a pansy -purple  bonnet;  and  the  Warden’s  wife 
had  thin  slate-coloured  lips,  and  her  nose  was  all 
nostril. 

“ I’m  so  very  grateful,”  said  Mamma,  dimly  con- 
scious of  electric  conditions  in  the  air,  and  changing 
her  mind,  as  she  often  did,  while  speaking,  as  to  the 
form  of  her  speech,  “ that  Peterkin  is  so  satisfactory. 
It  is  so  kind  of  you;  and  he  is  a dear  good  boy.” 

“ For  my  part,  I always  like  sons  best,”  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon  remarked,  not  looking  at  me,  “ and  I’m  so  glad 
all  mine  are  boys.” 

“ All  Mamma’s  sons  are  boys  too,”  said  Sylvia, 
smiling  straight  into  the  irritated  lady’s  eyes,  “ but 
she  has  only  one;  and  it’s  all  the  more  important  he 
should  do  well.  Under  Dr.  FitzSimon  he  is  sure  to. 
When  we  came  here  our  first  thought  was  of  the  great 
advantage  it  would  be  for  him  to  be  under  him.” 

The  Warden  did  not  correct  Sylvia’s  somewhat 
careless  arrangement  of  her  pronouns  this  time,  but 
smiled  as  one  who  is  resigned  to  being  famous. 

“You  had  heard  of  Abbot’s  School?”  he  said 
blandly. 

“Of  the  Warden  of  Abbot’s  School;”  and  Sylvia 
turned  her  liquid  eyes  full  on  the  Warden. 

“ Yes,”  said  Mamma,  “ we  heard  that  the  Warden 
was  a Doctor  FitzSimon.  I think  Miss  Belvoir  told 
us.” 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  smiled  remorselessly,  and  delivered 
herself  of  a rather  belated  repartee. 

“ As  for  one  son  being  more  important  than  sev- 
eral,” she  argued,  “ I don’t  see  that.  Where  there 
are  four  or  five  they  may  all  be  unsatisfactory.” 

“ There  is  not  the  least  fear  of  my  brother  being 


MONKSBRIDGE 


75 


CH.  X] 

unsatisfactory,”  said  Sylvia,  and  her  manner  con- 
veyed a perfect  readiness  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon’s  five  sons  might  all  go  astray.  And  the  Warden 
took  no  notice;  he  was  as  much  perverted  parentally 
as  conjugally. 

“ No,”  he  declared,  “ Auberon  will  do  well.  A day 
may  come  when  Abbot’s  School  will  be  proud  of  him.” 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  rose  to  take  leave,  and  the  Warden, 
who  liked  his  armchair  and  did  not  dislike  looking  at 
Miss  Auberon,  had  to  rise  too. 

“ You  are  not  forgetting,  Alicia,”  he  said  blandly, 
“ we  must  not  forget,  our  little  invitation,”  and  he 
turned  urbanely  to  Mamma. 

Thus  adjured,  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  who,  I think,  had 
not  wanted  to  remember,  said — 

“ We  came  intending  to  ask  if  you  would  join  us 
on  Wednesday  about  nine  o’clock;  it  is  one  of  our 
social  evenings.  We  do  not  give  parties;  they  are 
merely  social  evenings.  Would  you  and  your  party 
join  us  in  our  social  evening  at  about  nine  o’clock 
on  Wednesday  next?” 

At  the  first  mention  of  “ social  evenings  ” she  held 
forth  her  orange  right  hand  to  Mamma,  at  the  second 
she  bowed  coldly  towards  a marble  bust  of  Sir  Staple- 
ton  that  stood  behind  Sylvia,  at  the  third  she  turned 
to  me  and  smiled  and  nodded  encouragingly.  We 
were  all  to  go. 

“ And  Auberon,”  she  added,  “ though  young  for  our 
social  evenings,  bring  him  too.  The  Warden  will  be 
pleased  to  judge  of  him  in  private  life.  So  far  he  has 
but  viewed  him  from  the  Curule  Chair.” 

“ Perhaps,”  the  doctor  suggested,  “ not  strictly 
‘ Curule.’  ” 


76  MONICSBRIDGE  [ch.  x 

But  Mrs.  FitzSimon  did  not  choose  to  take  notice 
of  the  correction,  and  the  Warden  had  not  urged  it 
loudly.  As  the  moment  of  departure  grew  near  he 
became  meeker;  walking  home  with  her  there  would 
be  no  Miss  Auberon  to  support  him. 

“ Four  of  us ! ” said  Mamma.  “ Four  from  one 
family  will  be  quite  an  invasion.” 

“No,  no!”  cried  the  Warden,  “pray  let  us  see 
you  all.”  And  he  did  look  at  me,  and  tried  not  to 
look  at  Sylvia.  “ Pray  let  Auberon  come.” 


CHAPTER  XI 


It  was  at  Mrs.  FitzSimon’s  social  evening  that  we  first 
saw  Monksbridge  in  mass,  so  to  speak.  Hitherto,  we 
had  only  seen  it  in  detachments. 

Warden’s  Lodge  was  a big  house,  and  the  drawing- 
room, dining-room,  and  library  were  all  on  one  floor, 
opening  into  each  other.  They  were  large,  and  the 
drawing-room  was,  our  hostess  confessed,  a noble 
apartment. 

“ Including  the  bay,”  she  said,  with  so  vast  a man- 
ner that  she  might  have  been  speaking  of  the  Bay  of 
Biscay,  “it  is  forty-nine  feet  long.” 

“ I should  call  it  fifty,”  Sylvia  remarked  sympa- 
thetically; a big  room  always  appealed  to  her  best 
feelings.  “ It  must  be  fifty  including  the  wall.” 

“ Forty-nine  feet  long,”  Mrs.  FitzSimon  persisted, 
who  would  accept  no  gifts  from  such  a Greek,  “ and 
three  and  twenty  broad.  That,  I understand,  is  a per- 
fect proportion.  And  fifteen  high.  Papa  always  envies 
our  rooms.  There  is  none  of  this  size  in  the  Deanery.” 
Sylvia  liked  deans  pretty  well,  but  could  not  be 
subdued  by  them;  she  regarded  them  as  a sort  of 
addled  bishops  that  had  never  hatched  out. 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  received  Perkin  half  maternally, 
and  more  than  half  magisterially.  She  glanced  at  his 
shoes  lest  they  might  not  be  clean,  and  eyed  his  even- 
ing clothes  as  if  she  thought  he  would  be  sure  to  grow 
out  of  them,  and  an  Eton  jacket  would  have  been  better. 
All  her  five  sons  wore  Eton  jackets  still  (the  eldest 

77 


MONKSBRIDGE 


78 


[CH.  XI 


was  a year  older  than  Perkin),  and  their  trousers  were 
only  pepper  and  salt,  though  she  considered  they 
looked  black  at  night.  But  Peterkin  was  tall,  and  all 
her  boys  were  “ stubby.”  The  Warden  was  stubby 
too,  and  his  wife  in  critical  moments  was  inclined  to 
think  it  had  gone  against  him ; the  Dean,  like  herself, 
was  tall,  and  deans  should,  like  footmen,  be  as  tall 
as  possible. 

“ Good  evening,  Auberon,”  she  said,  with  encourag- 
ing condescension,  poking  the  sticks  of  her  fan  into 
his  hand.  “ You  will  find  your  friends  further  on — 
there  is  Richards  Max.  talking  to  Fitz  Ma.” 

In  public  she  always  called  her  five  by  their  school 
names,  and  they  were  Fitz  Max.,  Fitz  Ma.,  Fitz  Mi., 
Fitz  Min.,  and  Fitz  Quintus. 

We  all  went  further  on. 

There  was  the  Vicar  trying  to  convince  Mrs. 
Hawthorn  that  she  had  not  left  her  handkerchief  at 
home,  and  Miss  Hawthorn  chatting  provisionally  with 
Fitz  Max.  till  some  one  better  should  turn  up.  We 
were  evidently  not  the  only  family  that  had  “ come 
four.” 

There  was  Miss  Belvoir,  in  slate  satin,  and  her 
Mechlin  cap  (over  cherry-coloured  sarcenet),  smiling 
across  the  room  at  Mr.  Rumble,  the  Vicar  of  St. 
Thomas’s,  who  only  smiled  back,  and  would  not  come 
over  to  her,  lest  she  should  entangle  him  in  reminis- 
cences of  pre-Hawthorn  days,  when  she  reigned  at 
Prior’s  House.  Mr.  Rumble  was  ten  years  younger 
than  Miss  Belvoir,  and  she  would  not  remember  it,  but 
insisted  on  his  being  a contemporary.  At  eight  and 
thirty  he  felt  himself  quite  youthful,  and  no  one  on 
earth  thought  Miss  Belvoir  young.  He  had  a good 


MONKSBRIDGE 


79 


CH.  Xl] 

deal  of  hair,  and  it  had  a natural  curl,  and  his  com- 
plexion, in  which,  as  Miss  Hawthorn  said  once,  the 
York  and  Lancaster  roses  met,  entitled  him  to  feel 
younger  even  than  he  was.  And  Miss  Rumble  being 
a little  older  was  an  advantage.  She  spoke  of  him 
as  “ my  young  brother,”  to  distinguish  him  from  Mr. 
Stephen  Rumble  the  lawyer,  who  didn’t  mind  being 
fifty.  Mr.  Stephen  Rumble  was  there  too  with  his 
“ bride.”  They  had  been  married  nearly  four  months, 
but  Mrs.  Rumble  was  still  called  “ the  bride  ” at 
Monksbridge,  where  marriages  were  rare  events  in 
genteel  circles.  She  was  the  daughter  of  her  hus- 
band’s partner,  and  had  four  thousand  pounds  from 
her  mother,  and  no  brothers,  so  that  in  due  time  she 
would  have  all  that  Mr.  Bloom  had,  including  Castle- 
gate  House,  one  of  the  best  in  Monksbridge,  excel- 
lently stocked  with  furniture,  plate,  and  handsome  old 
china;  so  that  Mr.  Stephen  Rumble  had  done  very 
well.  And  as  Miss  Bloom  was  not  yet  two  and  thirty, 
some  people  thought  she  might  have  done  better;  but 
then,  some  other  people  thought  her  hair  more  than 
auburn,  and  they  remarked  that  she  had  a tongue, 
as  of  course  we  all  have. 

She  looked  extremely  well  in  her  white  brocaded 
silk,  with  a green  sash,  a green  scarf,  and  green  jade 
ornaments.  Her  hair,  red  or  no,  was  really  beautiful, 
and  her  clothes  were  so  well  made  and  so  well  put  on 
that  Sylvia  conceived  a favourable  opinion  of  her  char- 
acter, and  promptly  went  over  to  talk  to  her. 

Old  Mr.  Bloom  was  standing  near,  and  he  observed 
to  the  Baroness  that  those  two  young  ladies  made  a 
striking  couple.  The  Baroness  had  rather  a liking  for 
widowers,  and  Mr.  Bloom  was  still  a fine-looking  man, 


8o 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XI 


tall,  upright,  and  lean,  with  well-cut  white  hair,  and  a 
bright  ruddy  complexion.  He  had  not  married  till  he 
was  over  forty,  and  he  was  over  seventy  now,  but  he 
scarcely  looked  more  than  sixty.  The  Baroness  was 
not  quite  sixty,  but  her  spareness  was  of  a different 
sort,  and  in  evening  dress  she  gave  a bony  impres- 
sion. Her  grey  hair,  not  by  any  means  white,  was 
still  abundant,  so  she  wore  it  in  what  Monksbridge 
called  “ Marry  Antoinette  fashion.”  She  also  wore 
diamonds,  and  her  black  silk  was  relieved  by  a quan- 
tity of  fine  creamy  lace.  Her  hands  had  always 
been  beautiful  and  were  so  still,  though  now  too 
lean. 

“ Yes,”  she  agreed,  “ I never  saw  Eleanor  look  so 
well;  she  knows  how  to  dress.  That  peculiar  shade  of 
green  goes  perfectly  with  her  hair,  so  does  the  white 
brocade;  and  she  was  quite  right  to  relieve  it  with 
the  green.  Jade-green  is  not  a common  colour,  and 
it  was  quite  clever  of  her  to  get  hold  of  it.  Are  the 
jade  ornaments  an  old  family  possession?  ” 

The  Baroness  knew  that  the  Blooms  had  owned 
Castlegate  House  for  several  generations,  and  had 
always  had  good  things. 

“ Well,  not  exactly  an  heirloom ; but  a gran’  uncle 
of  mine  was  an  admiral  and  brought  them  home  from 
the  East  as  a present  for  his  sister-in-law,  my  grand- 
mother. Eleanor  unearthed  them,  and  I gave  them 
to  her  at  once,  but  I don’t  remember  her  wearing  them 
before.  But,  Baroness,  most  people  would  say  that 
Miss  Auberon  takes  the  shine  out  of  Eleanor.” 

“Not  in  the  least.  They  could  never  clash.  Of 
course  she’s  a lovely  girl,  but  any  one  would  say  she 
was  one  and  twenty;  and  she  manages  them  all  too 


ch.  xi]  MONKSBRIDGE  81 

much  for  her  age.  Her  mother  daren’t  say  ‘ Bo ! ’ to 
her.” 

“ I thought  it  was  a goose  one  had  to  say  ‘ Bo ! ’ to.” 

“ She’s  anything  but  that.  A little  cleverer  than  is 
necessary,  I think.  In  my  young  days  we  weren’t  sup- 
posed to  let  any  one  suspect  we  were  clever  till  we 
were  married.” 

“ If  I had  known  you  in  your  teens  I should  have 
suspected  it.” 

“ Ah,  but  you’re  a lawyer,  and  naturally  suspicious,” 
laughed  the  Baroness.  Thus  these  old  persons  flirted 
placidly  and  enjoyed  themselves  very  well. 

Mr.  Bloom  had  no  general  leaning  to  widows,  as  the 
Baroness  had  to  widowers,  but  he  rather  liked  his  old 
neighbour,  and  he  was  fond  of  people  one  knew  all 
about;  he  knew  that  the  Baroness’s  family  was  one  of 
the  best  in  Wales,  not  rich,  but  respectable  and  well- 
behaved,  with  an  hereditary  habit  of  solvency  and  de- 
cency. He  was  a fierce  old  Tory,  and  utterly  abomi- 
nated the  Llanthamy  Castle  splendours,  though  he  did 
not  make  fun  of  Lord  Monksbridge  like  Mrs.  de 
Braose.  Messrs.  Bloom  and  Rumble  managed  all  the 
de  Braose  estates,  as  the  firm  had  done  for  several  gen- 
erations. They  also  managed  the  “ Town  ” property, 
and  Mr.  Bloom,  like  Mr.  Rumble’s  father,  was  Town 
Clerk;  at  election  times  Bloom  and  Rumble  were  al- 
ways the  Conservative  agents,  as  Stiff  and  Pusher  were 
the  Liberal  agents.  Stiff  and  Pusher’s  offices  were 
in  Llanthamy,  and  they  managed  for  Lord  Monks- 
bridge. Old  Mr.  Stiff  was  a Dissenter,  and  young  Mr. 
Pusher  was  known  to  disbelieve  in  the  Mosaic  author- 
ship of  the  Pentateuch.  Neither  of  them  was  ever 
invited  to  Mrs.  FitzSimon’s  social  evenings — in  fact, 


82 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XI 


Mr.  Pusher  had  only  one  child,  a plain  little  girl  with 
a nursery  governess,  and  though  Mr.  Stiff  had  three 
daughters,  they  were  obviously  ineligible  to  be  Ab- 
bot’s Scholars;  also  they  were  “getting  on,”  the 
youngest  of  them  fifteen  years  older  than  Fitz  Max. 


CHAPTER  XII 


The  arrival  of  two  young  men,  hitherto  unseen  at 
Mrs.  FitzSimon’s  social  evenings,  caused  almost  a sen- 
sation. She  hoped  it  would  be  believed  she  had  ex- 
pected both  of  them,  but  neither  had  actually  been 
invited. 

“ Mrs.  FitzSimon,”  said  Mr.  Eustace  de  Braose,  as 
he  shook  hands,  “ I hope  you  will  not  think  me  very 
forward ; but  I found  out  you  had  a social  evening  on 
Wednesdays.” 

“ On  the  first,  third,  and  fifth  Wednesdays,”  his 
hostess  corrected  mildly — “ when  there  is  a fifth 
Wednesday.” 

“There  should  always  be  a fifth  Wednesday,”  de- 
clared the  youthful  diplomatist.  “ And,  as  I am  an 
old  boy,  I thought  I might  come.” 

He  did  not  look  like  what  is  generally  called  an  old 
boy;  but  Mrs.  FitzSimon  understood,  and  smiled  ur- 
banely. For  three  months  before  going  to  Eton,  he 
had  been  “ coached  ” by  the  Warden  in  dignified 
seclusion. 

“ And  I,”  said  Mr.  Monk,  “ was  dining  at  Island 
Court.  When  he  said  he  was  coming  on  here,  I re- 
fused to  be  left  behind,  and  determined  to  throw  my- 
self on  your  hospitality.” 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  was  not  a Liberal;  it  was  a Tory 
Premier  that  had  recognized  the  claims  of  her  papa’s 
logarithms  to  a deanery,  but  she  thought  well  of  hon- 
ourables,  and  handsome  young  men  can  never  be  out 

83 


84  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xii 

of  place  at  a party — not  that  her  social  evenings  were 
parties. 

“ Oh ! ” she  said,  “ no  invitation  was  necessary. 
We  do  not  invite ; we  merely  intimate — and  our  friends 
supervene.  Wednesday  arrives  (the  first,  third,  and 
fifth  Wednesdays)  and  our  rooms  fill  au-to-mat-i- 
call-y.  Pray  do  not  speak  of  not  being  invited,  but 
consider  yourselves  as  arriving ” 

“ Au-to-mat-i-call-y,”  a voice  was  heard  to  murmur. 

It  really  was  not  Sylvia’s ; but  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble 
was  standing  so  close  to  my  sister  that  I was  not  sur- 
prised to  see  our  hostess  dart  a vindictive  look  at  the 
Miss  Auberon  she  did  not  like.  And  Sylvia  did  smile 
at  that  precise  moment. 

As  their  hostess  shot  her  quick  glance  at  Sylvia,  the 
young  men’s  eyes  naturally  followed  hers,  and  pres- 
ently Mr.  de  Braose  and  his  friend  moved  on  to  greet 
my  sister.  I think  Mrs.  FitzSimon  suspected  why  they 
had  come;  but  they  had  come,  and  their  presence 
gave,  she  told  herself,  a cachet  to  the  social  evening. 
She  often  used  French  expressions  to  herself,  and  un- 
derstood what  they  meant  quite  as  well  as  a French- 
man would  have  done. 

Sylvia  did  not  monopolize  the  young  men,  but  firmly 
handed  on  Mr.  de  Braose  to  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble. 
She  could  not  hand  them  both  on,  and  simply  kept  the 
one  whose  mother  would  least  have  grudged  him  to 
her.  That  Mr.  Eustace  de  Braose  admired  her  my 
sister  had  perceived  at  their  first  meeting,  but  she  had 
also  begun  to  doubt  on  that  same  occasion  whether 
his  mother  thoroughly  appreciated  her.  An  attache 
and  a younger  son,  she  thought,  should  not  be  en- 
couraged by  people  whom  his  parents  and  guardians 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XII  ] 


85 


regard  critically.  Probably  he  owed  most  of  his  in- 
come to  his  mother’s  generosity  and  affection;  that 
gave  her  rights  which  Sylvia’s  calm  justice  fully  recog- 
nized. And  there  was  no  call  of  duty  to  set  her  in 
opposition  to  Mr.  de  Braose’s  mother.  Sylvia  knew 
she  could  do  nothing  for  the  de  Braoses,  whereas  her 
unerring  instinct  told  her  she  could  do  a great  deal 
for  the  Llanthamy  family.  To  do  it  might  be  her 
duty;  not  that  she  was  sure  yet,  for  some  higher  duty 
might  appear  in  her  path. 

So  she  returned  the  greetings  of  both  these  young 
men  with  perfect  friendliness,  and  handed  Mr.  Eus- 
tace de  Braose  on  to  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble.  She  did 
not  hand  Mr.  Monk  on  to  anybody,  but  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  she  had  welcomed  him  in  any  specially 
interested  manner.  She  knew  him  quite  well  by  that 
time,  and  had  only  met  Mr.  de  Braose  once  or  twice, 
but  she  received  them  both  with  the  same  calm  good- 
will. 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  watched,  greedily,  prepared  to  ac- 
cuse her  of  flirting;  but  that  was  because  she  did  not 
in  the  least  know  Sylvia,  who  never  flirted.  Old  Mr. 
Bloom  and  the  Baroness  in  their  corner  by  the  piano 
might  be  flirting,  but  nothing  could  be  less  like  it  than 
Sylvia’s  calm  and  public  friendliness  out  almost  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  When  the  Warden  came  up  to 
welcome  Mr.  Monk,  it  was  quite  plain  that  she  did  not 
in  the  least  consider  it  an  interruption. 

“ Were  you  surprised  to  see  me  ? ” Mr.  Monk  had 
been  asking  her,  with  a little  smile. 

“ You  said  yesterday,”  she  answered,  without  smil- 
ing, “ that  you  knew  the  Warden  and  Mrs.  Fitz- 
Simon very  little.” 


86 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XII 

“ Yes;  but  it  struck  me  that  it  was  a duty  to  know 
them  better.  When  Eustace  de  Braose  said  he  was 
coming  here,  I determined  to  do  my  duty  at  once. 
The  performance  of  duties  should  never  be  post- 
poned.” 

“ No,”  said  Sylvia,  gravely,  quite  ignoring  the  fact 
that  he  smiled  again,  “ when  one  is  sure  anything  is 
a duty.” 

She  spoke  thoughtfully,  thinking  more  of  herself 
than  of  Mr.  Monk.  Then  the  Warden  came  up,  and 
Mr.  Monk  talked  no  more  of  his  duty  as  connected 
with  his  presence  there. 

“ We  shall  have  some  music  presently,”  the  Warden 
promised  them.  ‘‘That  is  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble’s 
harp.  A beautiful  and  scriptural  instrument.” 

Sylvia  glanced  at  the  harp,  as  though  to  see  in  what 
respect  it  looked  scriptural. 

“ It’s  very  pretty,”  she  said.  (“  Her  arms  are  good, 
and  I think  she  is  quite  right  to  play  the  harp.”)  But 
this  she  did  not  say  aloud. 

“And  you,  will  you  sing?”  inquired  the  Warden. 
“ I am  sure  you  sing.” 

“No;  I do  not  sing.  I have  no  accomplishments. 
I can  do  nothing  of  the  kind.” 

“ Ah ! that  is  what  ladies  always  say.  Mr.  Monk, 
are  you  not  sure  that  Miss  Auberon  sings  ? ” 

“Warden!”  Mrs.  FitzSimon  whispered  loudly  at 
his  elbow.  “ The  Baroness  has  had  no  coffee ” 

“ My  dear,  I thought  Mr.  Bloom ” said  the 

guilty  Doctor,  with  an  ill-repressed  little  jump. 

“ No,  no  ; the  Baroness  will  expect  you  to  take  her 
to  coffee.  I will  tell  Mr.  Bloom  to  attend  to  Mrs. 
Hawthorn.” 


ch.  xii } MONKSBRIDGE  87 

So  the  Warden  was  piloted  away,  and  Mr.  Monk 
suggested  taking  Sylvia  to  coffee. 

“ No,  thank  you,  I do  not  like  it,”  she  said  in  her 
calm,  decisive  way.  “ But  Mamma  likes  it.  Perhaps 
you  would  take  her.  I should  like  to  ask  Miss  Belvoir 
how  she  is — if  you  will  take  Mamma.” 

And  my  sister  left  him  to  his  duty,  while  she  went 
cheerfully  to  hers.  Mr.  de  Braose  was  just  proposing 
coffee  to  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble,  and  Sylvia  saw  them 
move  off  together. 

“ He  evidently  admires  red  hair,”  she  said  to  her- 
self ; “ and  hers  is  quite  a rare  shade.  With  those 
jade-green  scarves  and  sashes  she  looks  wonderfully 
well;  I’m  glad  she  was  with  me.  I wonder  why  she 
married  that  podgy  lawyer?” 

“ I say,  Madge,”  Perkin  said  in  my  ear,  “ come  and 
have  some  coffee.” 

I saw  the  Vicar  of  St.  Thomas’s  wavering  down 
on  me,  and  accepted  my  brother’s  offer  promptly.  For 
all  I knew,  the  Rev.  William  Rumble  might  be  an 
archdeacon  in  embryo. 

“ Sylvia  looks  unkimmon,  don’t  you  think  ? ” Per- 
kin observed  as  we  went.  “ We  are,”  he  added,  as  we 
passed  a long  mirror,  “ a goodish-looking  lot.” 
“Who?  You  and  Sylvia?”  asked  I. 

“ And  Mamma.  She’s  better-looking  than  anybody 
here,  except  Sylvia.” 

“ How  about  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble  ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t  care  for  carrots.  Why,  you're  better- 
looking than  she  is.”  And  that  was  all  the  compliment 
I got  for  my  fishing. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


“ So,”  said  Lady  Llantwddwy,  “you  were  out  in  so- 
ciety last  night  ? ” 

We  were  lunching  with  her  at  Little  Park,  and  she 
liked  to  hear  all  the  local  gossip.  Little  Park  is  in 
Monksbridge,  but  neither  the  mother  nor  the  aunt  of 
the  reigning  Mr.  de  Braose  were  ever  to  be  seen  at 
Monksbridge  parties,  though  they  had  a bowing  ac- 
quaintance with  all  the  genteel  Monksbridgians,  and 
called  on  most  of  them  annually  or  quasi-annually. 

With  the  Vicar  and  the  Warden  they  dined  once 
every  winter,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hawthorn  and  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  FitzSimon  would  dine  at  Little  Park  and 
Island  Court  twice  or  thrice  in  a year. 

“ So,”  said  Lady  Llantwddwy,  “ you  were  out  in 
society  last  night  ? ” 

“In  or  out?”  said  Sylvia,  laughing  a little;  she 
knew  her  company  perfectly.  Lady  Llantwddwy  was 
a much  simpler  person  than  Mrs.  de  Braose. 

“ It  was  quite  a party,”  said  Mamma,  “ though  Mrs. 
FitzSimon  insists  they  are  only  social  evenings.” 

“ What  is  a social  evening  ? Did  they  play  Dumb 
Crambo  or  sing  glees  ? ” asked  Lady  Llantwddwy,  with 
smiling  curiosity. 

“ Miss  Hawthorn  played  something,”  Mamma  ex- 
plained, “ but  I don’t  know  if  it  was  called  Dumb 
Crambo;  it  was  Italian  music,  I think.  There  were 
no  glees,  only  a duet.” 


88 


ch.  xiii]  MONKSBRIDGE  89 

“ We  didn’t  do  anything  in  particular,”  said  Sylvia; 
“ we  merely  behaved  ourselves.” 

“ Beautifully,  I’m  sure,”  said  the  old  Viscountess, 
quite  delighted.  “ What  a good  thing  Maria  doesn’t 
go”  (Maria  was  Mrs.  de  Braose  of  Island  Court); 
“ she  never  can  behave  herself.  And  Eustace  was 
there.  Did  he  behave  pretty?” 

“ Perfectly,”  said  Sylvia,  who  had  discerned  a 
slightly  increased  touch  of  curiosity  in  the  old  lady. 
“ He  won  golden  opinions  from  everybody.  Mr, 
Stephen  Rumble  looked  as  if  he  didn’t  know  whether 
to  be  most  flattered  or  jealous.” 

“ Hi,  hi ! ” squeaked  the  Viscountess,  enraptured. 
“ An  attache  at  a Monksbridge  ‘ Evening  ’ ! Mrs. 
Rumble!  That’s  the  Miss  Bloom  with  brilliant  hair. 
I remember  her  mother,  a nice  woman,  in  Bright’s 
disease;  very  decent  people,  of  course.  And  the  bride- 
groom was  jealous!  I must  tell  Edgar.”  (Edgar  was 
the  reigning  Mr.  de  Braose.)  “If  it  was  election 
time  he  would  have  to  look  out,  or  his  young  brother 
would  be  coming  in  for  Monksbridge  over  his  head.” 
Though  the  old  lady  talked  with  such  animation  she 
never  neglected  her  luncheon;  fat  Mrs.  de  Braose  ate 
like  a sparrow,  thin  Lady  Llantwddwy  ate  like  an 
ostrich.  The  sisters-in-law,  as  they  called  themselves, 
were  not  in  any  way  alike.  Mrs.  de  Braose  had  a 
handsome  and  clever  face,  and  carried  her  short,  al- 
most round,  body  with  such  dignity  that  anywhere  she 
would  be  imposing.  Her  skin  and  complexion  had 
always  been  fine,  and  she  was  proud  of  her  abundant 
brown  hair,  almost  untinged  with  grey,  and  of  her 
beautiful  hands.  The  Viscountess  was  tall,  but  had 
no  figure ; she  had  a bad  way  of  walking,  with  a short 


90 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XIII 

run  and  a half  turn,  as  if  she  was  never  quite  sure 
where  she  meant  to  go,  and  her  long  head  was  gener- 
ally craned  out  in  front  of  her,  as  she  peered  out  of 
her  near-sighted  pale-grey  eyes.  She  dressed  rather 
badly,  and  wore  no  cap  on  her  scanty  drab  hair ; her 
face  was  also  drab,  and  her  hands  were  rheumatic. 
She  was  a plain,  awkward  woman,  but  all  the  same 
you  could,  Sylvia  said,  see  that  she  was  somebody. 

Little  Park  was  a good  deal  larger  than  Island 
Court,  the  present  house  dating  from  Charles  II.’s 
time  when  an  older  Tudor  house  had  been  burned 
down;  the  rooms  were  big  and  lofty,  lined  with  bro- 
caded silk,  on  which  hung  large  and  fine  portraits 
by  Lely,  Kneller,  Gainsborough,  Reynolds,  and  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence.  There  really  was  a small  park 
of  over  fifty  acres,  long  and  narrow,  with  the  town 
walls  on  one  side,  and  a very  high  stone  wall,  as  old 
as  the  present  house,  on  the  inner  or  town  side;  and 
there  were  deer  in  it,  whose  ancestors  had  been  brought 
from  Monkspark.  A screen  of  tall  cedars  hid  the 
house  from  the  road,  from  which  one  entered  the 
park  through  a splendid  pair  of  old  French  wrought- 
iron  gates,  hung  on  “ rustic  ” stone  pillars  of  the  Inigo 
Jones  type.  Opposite  these  gates  was  the  top  end  of 
Priory  Gate,  the  quaint,  irregular  street  that  curved 
down  to  the  Guild  Piece. 

Little  Park  was  altogether  a grander  place  than 
Island  Court,  though  not,  perhaps,  so  pretty,  and  with- 
out any  lovely  river  view,  and  I could  not  help  won- 
dering whether,  if  Lady  Llantwddwy  had  lived  in  a 
modern  street,  and  been  called  Mrs.  Somebody,  Sylvia 
would  have  been  sure  that  she  looked  like  Anybody. 

“ Your  party  seems  to  have  been  entertaining,”  Lady 


MONKSBRIDGE 


9i 


CH.  XIII] 

Llantwddwy  declared,  helping  herself  hastily  to  an- 
other quenelle  as  if  she  was  stealing  it.  “ Of  course, 

I don’t  go  out  at  night not  to  parties.  I should 

never  dare  to  tell  Evans  that  I wanted  the  carriage  to 
take  me  to  Warden’s  Lodge  if  it  was  not  to  dine  there. 
He  lets  me  dine  at  Monkspark  as  often  as  I like,  and 
at  the  Duke’s.  But  then  it’s  nine  miles  to  Castle 
Peovor;  a coachman  never  minds  going  out  at  night 
to  drive  nine  miles.  He  doesn’t  cordially  approve  even 
of  my  dining  at  Prior’s  House  or  Warden’s  Lodge,  and 
I haven’t  courage  to  do  it  more  than  once  in  a win- 
ter. You  see,  it’s  dull  going  half  a mile  and  coming 
home  again  to  put  the  horses  up,  and  then  having  to 
put  them  in  again  at  quarter-past  ten.  I wish  he’d  put 
them  up  at  the  Mitre,  as  my  nephew  does.  I dare  say 
he  would,  only  he  don’t  like  Edgar’s  coachman.  Evans 
was  with  us  at  Monkspark,  and  one  never  likes  one’s 
successor.  But  you  certainly  seem  to  have  had  all 
sorts  of  fun.  And  who,”  the  old  lady  asked,  with  a 
sudden  pounce  on  me,  “ came  to  the  party  to  see  you?  ” 

This  remark  quite  puzzled  Mamma,  but  Sylvia,  I 
could  see,  understood  it  very  well,  and  was  not  par- 
ticularly pleased. 

“ Mr.  William  Rumble  asked  me  if  I did  not  think 
my  sister  would  like  some  coffee,”  she  said,  laughing, 
“ but  I don’t  know  whether  he  came  on  purpose.” 

“ Hi,  hi ! Mr.  William  Rumble ! That’s  the  Vicar 
of  St.  Thomas’s.  And  I hope,  my  dear,  you  enjoyed 
the  coffee  ? ” 

“ Yes,  only  Perkin  jogged  my  elbow  and  spilled  half 
of  it  over  Miss  Hawthorn’s  train.” 

“ Brothers  should  not  be  too  near  sisters  at  parties,” 
said  her  ladyship. 


92  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xiii 

“ It  was  Perkin  who  gave  me  the  coffee,  and  he  gave 
me  another  cup.” 

“And  what,”  inquired  the  old  lady,  for  whose 
curiosity  nothing  was  too  insignificant,  “ and  what  did 
Miss  Hawthorn  say  ? ” 

“ She  never  knew.  Perkin  got  me  another  cup,  and 
then  fetched  her  pound-cake  and  talked  to  her.  He 
made  her  eat  three  pieces.  And  when  she’d  done,  I 
had  gone  off.” 

“ With  Mr.  William  Rumble,  I hope.” 

“ No;  by  myself.  I went  to  listen  to  the  musical- 
box  playing  ‘ Allan  Water.’  ” 

“You  managed  badly:  so  did  Perkin.  But  he 
managed  better  than  you.  I’ve  no  doubt  Mr.  William 
Rumble  did  come  on  purpose.  And  Becket’s  Close  is 
a pretty  sort  of  place.  Mrs.  Auberon,  I’m  afraid 
you’re  a bad  chaperon.  Those  Rumbles  have  a way  of 
getting  on — an  uncle  of  this  young  parson’s  became  a 
bishop  somewhere — in  Canada  or  New  Zealand,  I 
think;  and  he  married  very  well — one  of  Lord  St. 
Kevin’s  five  daughters.  You  know  the  St.  Kevins  al- 
ways have  crowds  of  daughters.  You  are  not  to  think 
of  the  Rumbles  as  just  country  lawyers.  I’ve  heard 
my  husband  say  (Mr.  de  Braose)  that  the  family  came 
from  France,  and  was  really  de  Rambouillet;  not  at 
the  Revolution,  but  at  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes.  They  were  Huguenots,  I suppose.  Anyway, 
they  dropped  the  ‘ de,’  and  the  name  got  changed  into 
Rumble.” 

Sylvia  was  thoroughly  interested.  “ I think,”  she 
said,  “ it  was  stupid  of  the  uncle  to  have  his  bishopric 
in  Canada  or  New  Zealand ” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XIIl] 


93 


“ Now  I think  of  it,  it  was  Mauritius,”  Lady  Llan- 
twddwy  remembered. 

“ Or  Mauritius,”  Sylvia  went  on.  “ There’s  not 
much  use  being  a bishop  in  those  sort  of  places.  If 
he  could  get  made  a bishop  at  all,  he  should  have 
taken  more  pains  and  got  some  diocese  at  home.” 

All  the  same  it  was  clear  that  she  thought  more  of 
Mr.  William  Rumble  now,  and  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
blame  him  for  his  uncle’s  defective  perseverance. 

“ And,”  she  said,  “ I don’t  see  why  they  dropped 
the  ‘ de,’  and  let  their  name  be  corrupted  into  Rumble.” 
She  was  so  seriously  interested  that  I almost  trem- 
bled. What  if  she  thought  my  duty  pointed  towards 
the  Vicar  of  St.  Thomas’s  ? Our  hostess  was  amused, 
and  she  said  to  Mamma — 

“ I am  afraid  you  are  a bad  chaperon.  Miss  Au- 
beron  would  be  much  better.” 

Lady  Llantwddwy  did  not  look  clever,  but  she  was 
sharp  enough;  and  Sylvia,  who  was  much  cleverer, 
was  not  without  a certain  simplicity.  Genius  is  often 
clear,  like  other  great  things,  such  as  the  atmosphere. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Peterkin  did  very  well  at  Abbot’s  School,  and  I 
think  we  were  all  a little  surprised.  He  gained  a num- 
ber of  prizes,  and  his  reports  every  half-year  were 
more  than  satisfactory.  All  the  masters  spoke  of  his 
capacity,  and  there  was  never  any  complaint  of  his 
industry.  The  truth  was,  he  was  a great  deal  cleverer 
than  Sylvia  or  any  of  us  had  imagined,  and  he  liked 
learning.  I dare  say  he  would  have  been  idle  enough 
had  the  things  he  had  to  learn  bored  him.  The  Warden 
had  said  he  lacked  emulation,  by  which  I suppose  he 
meant  that  Perkin  was  not  eager  to  do  well  for  the 
sake  of  being  better  than  other  boys;  but  he  did  bet- 
ter than  them  because  he  was  cleverer;  and  what  some 
of  them  only  learned  because  they  had  to,  he  learned 
because  he  was  interested  in  the  things  for  their  own 
sake. 

To  me  he  was  very  good-natured,  and  I may  say 
that  almost  all  the  education  I ever  had  I got  from 
him. 

A year  after  entering  the  school  there  was  a va- 
cancy among  the  Cardinal’s  Scholars,  and  Perkin 
“ won  the  gown,”  as  they  called  it,  passing  the  exami- 
nation with  such  distinction  that  the  Warden  paid 
Mamma  a special  visit  of  congratulation.  Sylvia  was 
out,  and  the  Doctor  spoke  so  highly  of  Perkin 
that  Mamma  quite  broke  down,  and  cried  over  the 

94 


MONKSBRIDGE 


95 


CH.  XIV] 

Warden’s  podgy  hand,  which  at  the  moment  seemed 
to  her  as  beautiful  as  anybody’s  feet  on  the  mountains. 

“ I am  so  thankful,”  she  wept.  “ He  is  a dear  boy ; 
but  so  light-hearted.” 

“ Not  at  all  light -headed,  ma’am,”  said  the  Doctor. 
“ His  head  is  well  furnished.” 

“ Yes.  I knew  he  was  capable.  But  I couldn’t  tell 
whether  he  would  apply  ...  he  is  easy-going,  and  I 
feared  he  might  take  things  too  easily.” 

The  real  truth  was  that  Mamma  could  only  see 
through  Sylvia’s  eyes,  and  had  never  guessed  that  Per- 
kin was  an  unusually  clever  boy.  She  thought  highly 
of  us  all,  because  we  were  her  children,  and  still  more 
because  we  were  papa’s,  and  because  it  was  impossible 
for  her  not  to  have  a high  opinion  of  those  she  loved. 
But  it  was  only  Sylvia  whom  she  supposed  every  one 
must  recognize  was  clever.  The  great  difference  was 
that  Sylvia  took  herself  very  seriously,  and  Perkin  did 
not  take  himself  seriously  at  all.  His  special  charm 
was  that  he  never  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  himself, 
and  this  quality  made  him  very  popular  at  school. 
Even  the  Doctor  spoke  of  it. 

“Auberon,”  he  said,  “does  easily  what  many  can 
only  do  with  tedious  effort.  Fortunately  they  are  the 
very  things  it  is  his  present  business  to  do.  He  has 
got  on  rapidly;  the  progress  he  has  made  in  a single 
year  is  quite  unusual.  He  will  certainly  do  notable 
credit  to  Abbot’s  School.  And  he  will  make  no  one 
jealous;  for  I have  pleasure  in  saying  that  he  is  a boy 
of  a sweet  disposition  whom  all  are  fond  of.  He  is 
brilliant  and  not  vain ; there  is  no  sign  of  conceit  about 
him.  Masters  often  regard  brilliant  lads  doubtfully, 
because  they  are  apt  to  think  too  well  of  themselves. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


96 


[CH.  XIV 


Auberon,  they  all  say,  never  betrays  the  least  appear- 
ance of  thinking  of  himself  at  all;  and  that  is  why  he  is 
so  well  liked  by  his  school  fellows — boys  hate  a con- 
ceited boy.  And  he  is  manly,  cheerful,  and,  as  you  say, 
light-hearted,  and  first-rate  at  games — without  that 
his  capacity  would  make  him  few  friends.” 

“ I wish,”  Mamma  said,  “ that  Sylvia  was  here.”  I 
wasn't  sure  that  I did,  for  though  it  would  do  her  good 
to  hear  all  these  praises  of  Perkin,  I felt  that  the 
Warden,  with  only  Mamma  to  talk  to,  was  at  his  best. 
Perhaps  he  would  never  have  become  fond  of  “Au- 
beron ” had  Auberon  been  a dull  or  even  average  boy, 
in  spite  of  all  his  sweetness  of  disposition ; but  Perkin, 
he  found,  was  not  an  average  boy,  and  the  Doctor  fully 
expected  that  Abbot’s  School  would  have  occasion  to 
be  proud  of  him.  So  that  the  qualities  which  really 
did  exist  in  my  brother  the  Warden  was  able  to  per- 
ceive. And  he  was  a friendly  man,  glad  to  bring 
good  news,  and  a little  touched  by  this  pretty  widow’s 
grateful  emotion. 

“ Ah,  how  kindly  you  speak ! ” she  said.  “ How 
much  we  owe  to  you!  It  was  Sylvia’s  idea;  she  is 
always  right.  It  was  she  who  saw  at  once  what  a 
chance  it  would  be  for  poor  Perkin  to  enter  Abbot’s 
School  under  you.” 

“ Well,  well,”  said  the  Doctor,  not  repudiating  such 
honest  praise,  “ we  have  all  done  our  part — each  in 
his  Own  Branch.  And  latterly,  Auberon  has  been 
peculiarly  my  own  charge.  Not  perhaps  in  History, 
and  Auberon’s  strongest  bent  is  History;  but  Mr.  Fur- 
nival,  in  whose  Branch  History  lies,  is  most  highly 
qualified  to  Preside  over  that  Branch.  But  what  would 
History  be  without  Classics?  And  Classics  are  my 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XIV] 


97 


Own  Branch.  History  is  very  well;  but  it  will  be  by 
Classical  Distinction  that  Auberon  will  become — er — 
Distinguished.” 

“ Classics,”  Mamma  murmured,  “ are  so  very  gen- 
tlemanly.” 

“ Wither  Classics,”  the  Warden  explained,  laying 
a heavy  emphasis  on  out,  “ the  English  Conception  of 
the  Finished  Gentleman  can  hardly  be — ur — conceived. 
But,  with  that  distinction  in  Classics  that  I foresee  for 
Auberon,  it  will  be  a question  of — ur — More.” 

He  paused  a moment,  because  a hair  was  tickling 
his  left  ear,  and  it  almost  seemed  to  Mamma  as  though 
he  were  thinking  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 

“ More?  ” she  queried. 

“Yes;  more  than  the  mere  Finished  Gentle- 
man  ” 

“ I did  not  know,”  said  Mamma,  with  vague  readi- 
ness for  distinctions  accruing  to  her  family,  “ that  they 
gave  peerages  for  Classics.  I know  that  my  dear  hus- 
band’s friend,  Mr.  Wing,  of  Oriel  College,  I think  (no, 
that  was  Mr.  Burkett,  who  went  over  to  Rome  when 
engaged  to  Clara  Simmonds,  and  became  a monk), 
of  Balliol  College — yes,  Balliol — edited  a Greek  play. 
(Was  it  Livy,  Marjory?  But  you  would  not  know; 
it  was  before  your  dear  father  and  I were  married.) 
And  he  became  a Baronet,  Sir  James  Wing,  of  Wing- 
dam,  or  Wingblow,  a very  fine  place  in  Norfolk,  called 
after  some  place  in  Holland  where  the  family  came 
from.  But  I thought  he  had  inherited  it  from  an 
uncle.  No  doubt,  however,  you  are  right,  and  it  was 
for  the  Greek  play  they  made  poor  Mr.  Wing  a bar- 
onet. (He  was  very  plain,  and  had  a silver  roof  to 
his  mouth.)  But  things  move  so  rapidly  nowadays; 


98  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xiv 

I dare  say  a peerage  would  be  the  thing  now.  And 

Sylvia  would  like  that ” 

“ My  dear  madam,”  the  Warden  was  able  to  inter- 
pose, Mamma  having  lost  her  vinaigrette  in  the  chintz 
of  the  sofa,  and  suddenly  stopping  to  make  plunges  for 
it.  “ I alluded  to  the  Distinctions  of  the  Schools.  To 
Aca-Dem-Ic  Honours.” 

He  became  syllabic,  partly  to  emphasize  his  lofty 
point,  and  partly  because  dear  Mamma,  in  thrusting 
about  for  the  vinaigrette,  had  encountered  a latent 
crochet-needle,  which  she,  convinced  it  was  a wasp, 
declared  had  stung  her. 

“ They  are  so  crawly  at  this  time  of  year,”  she  com- 
plained. “ Oh ! it’s  that  crochet-needle  that  I told  you, 
Marjory,  I was  sure  Hannah  had  borrowed.  I am  sure 
she  did,  too;  and  it  was  very  crafty  of  her  to  hide  it 
like  that,  and  dangerous  too;  it  might  just  as  well 
have  run  into  an  artery.” 

Under  cover  of  this  diversion  the  Warden,  who  had 
gallantly  risen  to  kill  the  wasp,  took  his  leave. 

“ Academic  Honours,”  were  his  last  words.  “ Aca- 
demic Honours  are  what  I foresee  for  Auberon.” 

But  Mamma,  I think,  never  relinquished  the  idea 
that  a title  was  in  store  for  Peterkin;  the  credit  of 
which  she,  however,  would  always  largely  attribute  to 
Sylvia. 


CHAPTER  XV 


We  knew  nobody  in  Llanthamy  and  there  was  noth- 
ing to  take  us  there.  Our  shops  were  all  in  Monks- 
bridge,  and  indeed  no  Monksbridge  lady  would  have 
confessed  to  wearing  anything  bought  over  the  wa- 
ter, though  we  understood  that  everything  was  cheaper 
there.  Even  in  going  to  Llanthamy  Castle  we  did 
not  drive  through  the  town  from  which  it  took  its 
name,  for  the  town  ran  along  the  river  to  the  left  of 
the  bridge,  and  the  road  to  the  castle  turned  sharply 
to  the  right. 

But  a few  months  after  Perkin  got  his  gown  we 
found  that  he  had  made  some  friends  in  Llanthamy. 
The  Cardinal’s  Boys  lived  “ in  College  ” and  he  was  at 
home  to  sleep  only  in  the  holidays,  so  that,  though 
he  was  often  in  and  out,  we  saw  much  less  of  him.  He 
was  no  longer  with  us  at  meal-times,  or  at  night,  and 
I missed  him  a good  deal.  No  Llanthamy  boys  were 
eligible  for  Abbot’s  School,  but  one  day  Perkin  told 
us  that  the  Llanthamy  High  School  had  challenged 
Abbot’s  to  play  them  at  cricket,  and  that  there  was 
some  discussion  as  to  whether  the  challenge  should 
be  accepted  or  refused.  There  was  a lofty  feeling 
among  many  of  the  Abbotites  that  the  presumption  of 
the  Llanthamists  should  be  coldly  snubbed. 

The  High  School  was  not  yet  twenty  years  old,  and 
Abbot’s,  it  was  urged,  should  assert  its  dignity.  Syl- 
via sympathized  with  this  view,  but  Perkin  laughed 
at  it. 


99 


IOO 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XV 


“ They  play  all  the  best  schools  in  the  two  counties,” 
he  said,  “ and  lick  some  of  the  best.  They’ve  a good 
eleven,  and  we’d  better  show  them  that  ours  isn’t 
afraid  of  it.” 

And  Perkin,  whose  voice  was  now  weighty  at  Ab- 
bot’s, carried  the  day  there.  When  Lord  Monks- 
bridge  heard  of  this  from  Mamma,  he  spoke  very 
handsomely  of  her  boy’s  “ manly  common  sense,”  and 
she,  who  had  agreed,  naturally,  with  Sylvia,  began  to 
feel  sure  that  she  had  been  on  Perkin’s  side  all  along. 
Lord  Monksbridge  was  a founder  and  visitor  of  Llan- 
thamy  High  School,  and  always  had  a certain  jealousy 
of  Abbot’s,  which  called  for  drastic  reform,  whereas 
the  High  School  had  been  born  reformed.  It  was 
free  from  sectarian  tests,  while  all  Abbotites  had  to 
be  members  of  the  Church  of  England.  Among  the 
things  he  wished  to  reform  at  Abbot’s  were  the  Ex- 
hibitions, of  which  Perkin  gained  one  only  four 
months  after  getting  his  gown.  These  Exhibitions 
were  a sort  of  scholarship,  and  took  the  form  of  little 
annuities  for  two,  three,  four,  and  five  years,  or  of 
considerable  money-prizes  not  continued  annually. 
The  education  was  already  free,  but  an  Abbot  Hum- 
phry Exhibitioner  had  eighty  pounds  a year  for  five 
years,  or  for  as  long  as  he  remained  at  school,  and 
for  three  years  afterwards  if  he  went  up  to  Cardinal’s 
College;  an  Abbot  Watkin  Exhibitioner  had  fifty 
pounds  a year  for  three  years,  and  so  on.  What  Per- 
kin gained  was  the  Cardinal’s  Prize  of  Sixty-Seven 
Pounds,  the  founder  of  it  having  been  sixty-seven 
years  old  at  the  time  of  its  institution ; it  was  only 
given  once  in  three  years. 

Lord  Monksbridge  argued  that  all  this  showed  the 


MONKSBRIDGE 


IOI 


CH.  XV] 

school  to  be  too  well  off.  Dr.  FitzSimon,  might  be  a 
very  good  man,  but  twelve  hundred  a year  was  by  far 
too  much  for  him. 

Lord  Monksbridge  was  pleased  with  Perkin;  all  the 
same  he  thought  he  would  like  to  reform  Abbot’s,  and 
would  have  certainly  made  it  his  own  particular  busi- 
ness if  he  had  been  a younger  man.  Perhaps  Hamp- 
den would  do  it;  but  Mr.  Monk  had  been  at  Eton  and 
Christ  Church,  and  did  not  care  so  much  about  re- 
forming old  educational  establishments. 

It  was  through  that  cricket  match  (in  which  Ab- 
bot’s did  not  triumph)  that  Perkin  became  acquainted 
with  Llanthamists,  and  the  friends  he  gradually  made 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  water  were  destined  to  affect 
his  career.  Sylvia,  as  Mamma  confessed,  with  deep 
but  belated  penitence,  had  been  right  as  usual. 

“ Mamma,”  I said  to  her  one  day,  “ you  were  out 
when  Perkin  came,  and  he  wants  to  bring  a friend 
to  tea  on  Sunday.  I was  to  tell  you.  Do  you  mind  ? ” 

“No,  my  dear;  of  course  not.  His  friends  are  al- 
ways nice.” 

Perkin  had  by  no  means  fulfilled  his  owm  gloomy 
prediction  of  becoming  intimate  with  the  sons  of  our 
tradesmen;  even  as  a Town  Boy  he  had  kept  no  such 
undesirable  company,  and  the  Collegers,  or  Cardinal’s 
Boys,  rather  made  a point  of  exclusiveness.  He  was 
very  genial  in  school  and  everywhere  with  all  the  boys, 
but  he  never  brought  any  one  to  Cross  Place  that  even 
Sylvia  could  have  objected  to.  She  was  not  fond  of 
boys  in  general,  and  it  was  chiefly  as  a boy  that  she 
regarded  Perkin  himself  with  some  criticism;  but  the 
boys  he  brought  home  would  not  be  offensive  if  they 
were  only  grown  up. 


102  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xv 

‘‘What  is  his  friend’s  name?  Did  he  say?”  asked 
Mamma. 

“Byrne.  Hubert  Byrne.” 

“ I used  to  dance  with  a Captain  Burns,  but  he  was 
no  relation  of  the  poet.  I asked  him,  and  he  seemed 
quite  offended,  though  his  name  was  Bertie  (I  had 
heard  his  brother  officers  call  him  so) , and  I naturally 
thought  it  was  Robert.  But  it  wasn’t;  Ethelbert  was 
his  name.  And  he  was  of  a good  family.  The  poet 
was  a ploughman,  of  course,  and  Captain  Burns  didn’t 
like  it.  But  he  did  not  give  over  asking  me  to  dance. 
That  was  before  my  marriage;  your  dear  papa’s  Rec- 
tor did  not  approve  of  clergymen’s  wives  dancing, 
and  I gave  it  up;  his  wife  was  a charming  woman 
with  a wooden  leg,  not  an  accident  but  congenital, 
as  the  doctors  call  it.  I dare  say  Perkin’s  friend 
is  his  son — or  nephew;  I know  he  had  brothers, 
who  probably  married.  The  age  would  be  just 
right.” 

“Hubert  Byrne,  Mamma;  not  Burns.” 

“You  never  know;  perhaps  it  is  Burns.  You  may 
have  caught  the  name  wrong,  as  I often  do;  and  you 
and  I are  more  alike  than  Sylvia  and  I.  In  mind 
you  and  I are  more  alike  than  Sylvia  and  I.  Besides, 
Hubert  makes  Bertie  for  short,  just  like  his  father — 
or  uncle,  as  the  case  may  be.  I wonder  if  he  is  like 
Captain  Burns;  he  had  a slight  limp  (not  ugly  at  all; 
rather  interesting)  from  i*heumatic  fever:  that  would 
settle  it.” 

“ Perkin  did  not  mention  it.” 

“ No,  dear.  Perkin  would  be  the  last  to  mention 
any  physical  defect  in  another.  He  would  ignore  it; 
that  is  so  like  dear  Perkin.  His  not  mentioning  it 


ch.  xv]  MONKSBRIDGE  103 

would  make  it  only  the  more  probable — in  a boy  with 
so  scrupulous  a delicacy  as  Perkin.” 

Sylvia  was  away,  on  a short  visit  to  Llanthamy  Cas- 
tle, and  she  did  not  come  back  till  Monday.  On  Sun- 
day, early  in  the  afternoon,  Perkin  and  his  friend  ap- 
peared ; the  friend  certainly  did  not  limp,  and  his  name 
was  undoubtedly  Byrne,  but  he  confessed  that  Burns 
might  be  the  Scotch  form  of  it,  and  Mamma,  as  soon 
as  she  got  the  chance,  triumphed  over  me. 

“ He  has,”  she  declared,  “ Captain  Burns’s  nose, 
with  just  a tilt — not  actually  retrousse.  Noses  run  in 
some  families:  more  than  eyes,  I think.  After  all 
there  are  only  two  eyes,  the  light  and  the  dark,  but 
noses  are  almost  infinite.  The  same  nose  means  some- 
thing. I am  sure  these  Irish  Byrnes  are  of  the  same 
stock  as  the  Scotch  Burnses — apart  from  the  fact  that 
I never  heard  Captain  Burns  was  Scotch ; he  may  have 
been  Irish,  too,  for  all  I know — North  of  Ireland,  very 
likely;  but  that  would  not  make  him  less  Irish:  I sup- 
pose a Northumbrian  is  English.  You  argue  some- 
times, Marjory,  but  you  will  hardly  assert  that  a 
Northumbrian  is  not  English.  Elsie  Pye  at  Miss 
Tippet’s  married  a gentleman  from  Northumberland, 
and  his  very  name  was  English.” 

Thus  Mamma  clave  to  her  point,  and  insisted  on 
regarding  Hubert  Byrne  with  a certain  sentimental 
interest,  as  somehow  covered  with  the  halo  in  which 
Captain  Burns  (who  danced  beautifully,  in  spite  of 
his  limp)  hovered  in  her  memory. 

Byrne  was  a very  nice  boy,  two  years  older  than 
Perkin,  tall  and  manly;  not  handsome  (though 
Mamma,  endowing  him  with  all  Captain  Burns’s  good 


MONKSBRIDGE 


104 


[CH.  XV 


qualities,  as  heirlooms,  said  he  had  notable  features), 
but  somehow  attractive. 

“ He  has  air,”  Mamma  told  me  in  private,  “ as  Cap- 
tain Burns  had.  His  air  was  quite  Archducal ; I heard 
that  said.  Mrs.  Quigg — I had  known  her  as  Amy 
Plimmer  at  Miss  Tippit’s — has  travelled  in  Austria 
(she  stayed  nearly  a fortnight  in  Vienna),  and  she 
said  he  reminded  her  of  the  Archduke  Hildebrand. 
This  boy  has  air.  It  never  comes  accidentally.  De- 
pend upon  it  he  is  of  good  blood.  You  may  not  recog- 
nize it,  but  Sylvia  would.” 

“He  has  quite  beautiful  eyes,”  I hinted,  “almost 
violet;  and  I never  saw  such  long,  dark  eyelashes. 
But  they  are  rather  wistful,  not  sad  exactly.” 

“ I dare  say,”  said  Mamma,  cheerfully,  “ they  are 
sad.  You  know  there  was  a tragedy  in  the  family; 
poor  Captain  Burns’s  father  shot  himself,  or  drowned 
himself ; yes,  now  I remember,  it  was  drowning  himself 
he  was  accused  of,  for  they  found  the  boat,  and  some 
people  (I  heard)  had  pretended  to  think  he  merely 
fell  out,  and  was  drowned  because  he  could  not  swim. 
But  the  general  opinion  was  that  the  accident  was  pre- 
meditated. That  would  account  for  a sad  look  in  his 
grandson’s  eyes.  I should  not  be  surprised  if  the  real 
name  was  Burns  after  all,  and  they  changed  it  be- 
cause of  the  suicide.” 

Hubert  returning  with  Perkin  from  the  garden  at 
that  moment,  I heard  no  more  of  his  grandfather’s 
suicide  then. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


Hubert  not  only  had  “ air  ” but  he  had  delightful 
manners,  not  young-mannish  but  frank  and  boylike; 
to  Mamma  he  was  prettily  deferential,  to  me  most 
courteous  and  pleasant.  He  had  lived  nearly  all  his 
life  in  England,  and  had  no  brogue,  but  just  a hint 
of  an  Irish  intonation  that  I thought  very  pretty.  In 
spite  of  the  sad  look  I had  thought  there  was  in  his 
eyes,  he  was  anything  but  dismal,  but  merry  and  cheer- 
ful. A lad  of  nearly  nineteen  will  often  be  rather 
patronizing  to  a boy  of  sixteen  and  a half,  but  Byrne 
did  not  in  the  least  try  to  patronize  Perkin.  They 
seemed  already  great  friends — but  that  was  Perkin’s 
way;  he  found  out  at  once  what  there  was  to  like  in 
people  and  became  intimate  immediately.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  my  brother  was  quite  fond  of  Hubert,  and 
that  Byrne  was  pleased  by  it. 

“ What  a pretty  room ! ” he  said,  looking  about  him 
with  alert,  appreciative  eyes;  and  Mamma  was  flat- 
tered. “ Auberon  has  shown  me  the  other  rooms  too, 
and  they  are  all  charming.  This  is  the  first  Monks- 
bridge  house  I was  ever  in,  but  I have  always  admired 
their  outsides.” 

“ You  can’t  see  Cross  Place  from  any  road,”  Mamma 
observed  complacently,  mindful  of  our  dignified  se- 
clusion. 

“ No;  but  I’ve  seen  it  from  the  river,  and  thought 
how  nice  it  looked.  Our  houses  in  Llanthamy  are 
mostly  ugly.” 


105 


io6  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xvi 

“Isn’t  yours  a pretty  house?”  asked  Mamma. 
“ But  perhaps  you  don’t  live  quite  in  the  town  ? ” 

“ Yes,  we  do,  in  a regular  street.  And  it’s  an  ugly 
house,  neither  old  nor  very  new.  Just  one  of  a row, 
all  nearly  the  same;  and  we’ve  no  lady  to  make  it 
pretty  inside  for  us,  even  if  we  had  the  things — 
and  we  have  not.  We  have  no  pictures  or  china  or 
beautiful  furniture  like  yours.” 

“ Ah,”  said  Mamma,  “ there  should  be  a lady  in 
every  house.  Gentlemen  can  never  manage  servants.” 
“Ours  manage  us.  They  have  both  been  with  us 
since  before  I was  born;  but  they  don’t  ill-treat  us. 
In  fact,  they  are  very  kind  so  long  as  we  are  good.” 

“ I’m  sure  you’re  always  good.” 

“ My  father  is  not ! He  comes  in  at  all  hours  for 
his  meals,  and  sometimes  makes  mud-marks  on  the 
stair-carpet  with  his  boots.  Sarah  is  English  and 
thinks  that  frightful.” 

Mamma,  being  also  English,  looked  as  if  she  thought 
Sarah  was  right. 

“ And  both  of  us,”  Hubert  went  on  cheerfully, 
“wear  the  holes  in  our  socks  so  big  that  Sarah  says 
it’s  cruel  having  to  darn  abbesses.” 

“ Abysses,”  Perkin  suggested,  that  Mamma  might 
understand  the  allusion.  She  smiled,  but  her  sympa- 
thies were  much  divided  between  Sarah  and  the  two 
careless  male  creatures  she  had  to  darn  for. 

“ And,”  said  Hubert,  “ Norah  is  a good  cook,  and 
it  drives  her  crazy  when  my  father  comes  in  so  late 
that  his  dinner  is  spoiled.  He  doesn’t  care  what  he 
eats,  and  only  says,  ‘ Well,  Norah,  I’ll  be  punctual  if 
you’ll  arrange  that  no  one  shall  be  ill  at  meal-times.’  ” 

“ Is  Mr.  Burns  a clergyman  ? ” Mamma  inquired 


MONKSBRIDGE 


107 


CH.  XVl] 

with  special  interest.  “ An  old  friend  of  mine  of  your 
name  (Marjory  has  heard  me  speak  of  him)  became 
a clergyman.  I remember  hearing  that  he  had  simply 
no  appetite — after  measles  that  was;  they’re  so  trying 
when  one  has  them  full  grown.” 

“ A clergyman ! ” Hubert  answered,  laughing  a lit- 
tle. “ Anything  but ! My  father  is  a doctor  and  a 
Catholic.” 

“ Oh,  really ! ” Mamma  murmured.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  ever  sat  down  to  tea  with  a 
Catholic;  and  it  was  disappointing  too,  for  she  was 
sure  none  of  Captain  Burns’s  relations  had  been  Catho- 
lics. But  a sanguine  temperament  is  equal  to  any 
emergency,  and  she  had  barely  had  time  to  ask  Perkin 
to  pull  one  of  the  blinds  down  a little,  before  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  Hubert’s  father  had  probably  gone 
over  to  Rome,  and  changed  his  name  for  the  sake  of 
his  family. 

“ It  is  a sad  pity,”  she  observed  kindly,  “ that  you 
and  your  father  have  no  lady  to  take  care  of  you.” 

“ Yes,  so  I tell  him.  Father  is  only  forty-six  and 
very  good  looking,  and  I say  he  ought  to  marry 
again.” 

“ You  are  right,  especially  as  you  are  not  a daugh- 
ter. Stepsons  and  stepmothers  get  on  very  well,  I 
think.” 

“ I say  that  too.  But  father  won’t  hear  of  it.” 

“Won’t  he,  indeed?”  said  Mamma,  a little  stiffly, 
as  if  she  did  not  think  much  of  the  Doctor’s  manners. 

At  tea  we  sat  down  round  the  dining-room  table, 
and  Mamma  said  grace.  I think  it  startled  her  a lit- 
tle when  Hubert  bent  his  head  and  crossed  himself,  not 
ostentatiously,  but  not  in  the  least  as  if  he  were 


108  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xvi 

ashamed  of  it.  Perkin,  I’m  afraid,  winked  at  me,  and 
asked  me  in  a low  voice  if  I had  a vinaigrette  about 
me;  but  to  do  him  justice,  neither  Mamma  nor  Hu- 
bert could  hear  this. 

“ You  wouldn’t  remember,”  she  said  to  me,  her 
rapid  faculty  of  association  having  carried  her  thoughts 
far  from  the  present  company,  “the  man  that  used 
to  sweep  our  chimneys  at  Carysford — your  dear  papa’s 
first  curacy;  in  fact,  he  was  merely  locum-tenens  for 
a Mr.  Swilton  who  went  under  a long  operation,  and 
we  only  stayed  two  or  three  months.  But  the  chimneys 
were  quite  clogged,  and  we  had  to  have  them  swept  on 
the  Tuesday  after  we  came — no,  Wednesday,  for  we 
had  boiled  mutton,  and  it  was  red-raw  inside.  Murphy 
his  name  was,  and  the  blackest  eyes  you  ever  saw. 
(It’s  quite  a mistake  to  think  that  the  Irish  have  all 
red  hair.)  I saw  him  afterwards  in  the  street  on  a 
Sunday,  and  he  was  quite  smart,  and  as  clean — only 
of  course  his  hair  still  black.  He  mended  the  caster 
of  an  armchair  that  had  come  off,  and  it  rocked  so 
that  you  felt  quite  sea-sick  in  it.  Of  course  we  gave 
him  sixpence  extra  for  it  (I  fancy  the  Irish  are  all 
handy),  and  he  spat  on  it  for  luck — he  was  quite  un- 
educated, you  understand;  and  I remember  your  fa- 
ther (who  talked  to  him  while  he  was  sweeping  it) 
told  me  that  he  only  wished  all  our  own  people,  chim- 
ney-sweeps or  no,  knew  and  cared  as  much  about  their 
religion  as  Tim  Murphy  did  about  his.”  And  dear 
Mamma,  always  determined  to  look  at  the  best  side 
of  everything,  smiled  with  kindly  indulgence  on  Hu- 
bert, whose  father  might  still  belong  to  her  Burnses, 
and  who  could  not  help  being  a Catholic  himself  if  his 
parents  had  been. 


ch.  xvi]  MONKSBRIDGE  109 

Hubert  smiled  back,  showing  all  his  good-natured, 
brilliant  teeth,  and  if  he  only  half  understood  Mam- 
ma’s story  and  its  connexion  with  himself,  he  evidently 
understood  her  kind  intention,  and  evidently  liked  her. 
I think  Perkin  and  I both  liked  him  better,  too,  for 
liking  her:  for  we  were  fonder  of  her,  perhaps,  even 
than  Sylvia  was,  though  neither  of  us  could  ever  hope 
to  hold  Sylvia’s  place  in  her  esteem.  And,  though 
Mamma  always  missed  Sylvia  very  much  if  she  was 
away  for  a day  or  two,  and  thought  everything  must 
go  wrong,  still  I think  that  on  such  occasions  she  talked 
more,  and  enjoyed  a sort  of  liberty.  For  her  high 
idea  of  Sylvia’s  cleverness  kept  her  just  a little  in 
awe,  and  anxious  to  avoid  rambling  on  in  her  presence 
in  the  way  that  did  very  well  for  us.  I dare  say  Mrs. 
Milton  felt  something  of  the  same  sort  when  her  hus- 
band was  out  of  the  way.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that 
Mamma’s  favourite  daughter  snubbed  her,  or  seemed 
impatient  at  her  reminiscences,  for  that  would  be  most 
unjust  to  my  sister,  who  only  snubbed  me  and  Perkin, 
and  was  never  once  in  her  life  disrespectful  to  our 
mother:  it  was  only  dear  Mamma’s  instinct  that  led 
her  to  feel  that  for  Sylvia  conversation  in  slippers, 
so  to  speak,  was  not  good  enough. 

Hubert  being  a Catholic,  once  she  had  got  over 
the  slight  initial  shock,  gave  him  in  Mamma’s  eyes  a 
sort  of  outlandish  interest — as  if  he  had  been  an  ami- 
able (and  good-looking)  Patagonian  or  Friendly 
Islander. 

“ That  sad  look  in  his  eyes,”  she  told  me  afterwards, 
“ may  be  due  to  the  Inquisition : no  doubt  he  is 
ashamed  of  it — and  of  course  it’s  not  his  fault.” 

“I  wish,”  she  said,  during  tea,  “I  had  known:  it 


MONKSBRIDGE 


no 


[CH.  XVI 


would  have  been  quite  easy  to  have  some  fish — just  as 
easy  as  eggs  and  cold  ham.” 

“ I can’t  abide  fish,”  Hubert  assured  her,  “ and  I 
like  ham  better  than  anything.” 

“ You’re  very  polite,”  she  said,  shaking  her  head, 
“ but  Perkin  should  have  told  us.” 

Perkin  laughed  aloud  and  reminded  her  it  was  not 
Friday.  And  Hubert  laughed  too  and  tried  to  con- 
vince her  that  Catholics  seldom  care  for  fish. 

“ I wish,”  she  said  later  on,  “ that  you  and  Perkin 
were  at  school  together.” 

She  really  liked  Hubert  better  than  any  of  the  boys 
from  Abbot’s  School  that  Perkin  had  brought  to  Cross 
Place. 

“ I’m  not  eligible  for  Abbot’s,  you  see,”  he  answered, 
smiling,  “ I live  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  bridge.” 

“ And,”  said  Perkin,  rather  fiercely,  with  a sort  of 
little  blush,  “ nobody  is  eligible  for  the  Cardinal’s 
school  who  belongs  to  the  Cardinal’s  religion.” 

Mamma,  I am  sure,  did  not  understand  at  all  why 
Perkin  spoke  with  a sort  of  protesting  vehemence: 
perhaps  I did  not,  then.  But  Hubert  did,  and  he  said, 
laughingly — 

“ It’s  not  your  fault,  anyway.  Cheer  up,  Perkin.” 

“ My  fault,  no ! ” my  brother  exclaimed.  “ But  I 
think  it  a beastly  shame.  Here  am  I,  a Protestant, 
collaring  the  Cardinal’s  red  gown  and  his  sixty-seven 
pounds ; and  you  who  belong  to  his  Church  with  much 

more  right  to  them ” 

“ Except,”  Hubert  remarked,  with  all  his  good- 
natured  teeth  shining  out  of  his  smile,  “ except  that 
I haven’t  gained  them,  and  you  have.” 

“That’s  nonsense,”  said  Perkin;  “you  could  pass 


MONKSBRIDGE 


hi 


CH.  XVl] 

any  examination,  twice  as  well,  that  I could  pass  at 
all.  Lord  Monksbridge  is  very  keen  about  reforming 
Abbot’s;  he’d  better  begin  by  getting  it  thrown  open 
to  the  people  it  was  founded  for.” 

Mamma  was  quite  puzzled;  she  could  not  in  the 
least  guess  what  had  ruffled  Perkin. 

“ My  dear,”  she  said  nervously,  “ if  none  of  you  will 
have  any  more,  I think  we’d  better  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room.  They  will  want  to  clear  away  and 
wash  up,  to  get  to  church.” 


CHAPTER  XVII 


When  Sylvia  came  home  she  heard  about  Hubert’s 
visit,  but  did  not,  then,  pay  much  attention.  He  lived 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  bridge;  but  as  most  of 
Llanthamy  belonged  to  Lord  Monksbridge,  and  she 
had  just  come  from  Llanthamy  Castle,  her  strictly 
Monksbridge  prejudice  was  a good  deal  in  abeyance. 

“ Dr.  Byrne  ? Oh  yes ! ” she  remarked  carelessly. 
“ I heard  his  name  only  yesterday.  Lady  Monks- 
bridge mentioned  him.  He  is  rather  a clever  doctor. 
Not  their  doctor,  I suppose:  but  he  looks  after  the 
servants — and  the  agent’s  wife  too,  Mrs.  Lloyd;  she 
is  in  a decline,  I think.” 

“ Hubert  Burns,”  Mamma  declared  (thinking  of 
the  Captain,  perhaps),  “ is  quite  a gentleman.  No  one 
could  doubt  that.  I never  saw  more  pleasing  manners 
in  a youth.” 

“ Very  likely.  One  often  sees  it.  A father  may  be 
very  ordinary  and  a son  almost  of  a different  class.” 

“ You  may,”  I observed,  “ have  seen  a recent  in- 
stance.” 

Of  course  I had  no  business  to  say  it,  and  knew 
that  I had  not;  but  Sylvia  talked  of  Perkin’s  friend 
just  as  she  might  have  done  if  he  had  been  a coach- 
man’s son  who  had  received  an  education. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows,  but  deigned  no  other  no- 
tice of  my  ill-breeding.  She  merely  punished  me  by 
saying  nothing,  till  she  was  alone  with  Mamma,  of  an 

112 


ch.  xvii]  MONKSBRIDGE  113 

important  subject:  and  probably  would  have  waited 
in  any  case. 

“ For  my  part,”  Mamma  went  on,  “ I like  Hubert 
better  than  any  of  Perkin’s  school  friends.  I only  wish 
he  was  at  Abbot’s;  but,  of  course,  he  can’t  be — none 
of  the  Llanthamy  people’s  sons  can.” 

“ That,”  Sylvia  observed,  in  a sort  of  family  man- 
ner, “ is  one  of  the  things  Lord  Monksbridge  would 
like  to  have  reformed.  Abbot’s  is  quite  big  enough  for 
Monksbridge  and  Llanthamy : he  says  it  ought  to  be 
open  to  both  towns.” 

“Yes,  my  dear,  so  it  ought.  Now  Perkin  has  his 
gown  and  his  Exhibition.  But  Hubert  is  a Roman 
Catholic,  too.  He  wouldn’t  be  eligible  in  any 
case.” 

“ No.  A Roman  Catholic?  I suppose  Lady  Monks- 
bridge knew,  but  she  didn’t  mention  it.  She  only 
spoke  of  Dr.  Byrne  in  relation  to  his  profession.  It’s 
absurd  to  be  a Roman  Catholic  nowadays.” 

“ The  Cardinal  was  one  when  he  founded  Abbot’s,” 
I suggested — thinking  of  Perkin  and  his  annoyance 
at  his  friend’s  exclusion  from  the  good  things  the  Car- 
dinal had  provided. 

“ Of  course,”  said  Sylvia,  coldly.  “ Our  ancestors 
all  were.  It  was  the  same  with  everybody  then.  It 
was  the  custom.  But  we  don’t  go  about  in  chain- 
armour  now : to  be  a Catholic  now  is  ridiculous.  And 
no  one  is.  This  Dr.  Byrne,  I fancy,  merely  attends 
the  servants  at  Llanthamy  Castle.  I quite  gathered 
that.” 

Sylvia  was  not  in  the  least  concerned  about  Dr. 
Byrne  and  his  son,  and  Perkin’s  intimacy  with  the  lat- 
ter. She  had  more  important  matters  to  interest 


H'4 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XVII 

herself  in:  as  I was  soon  to  hear.  She  simply  gave 
utterance  to  her  practical  view  of  things.  Perkin’s 
irresponsible  friendships  were  neither  here  nor  there. 

Later,  in  the  evening,  while  I was  dressing  for  din- 
ner, Mamma  came  into  my  room.  We  dined  at  eight 
now,  and  had  a very  slender  luncheon  at  one.  Not 
that  our  dinner  was  much:  still,  we  had  soup,  and 
dessert — apples,  or  oranges,  in  winter,  in  summer  any 
fruit  there  was  in  the  garden. 

“ Madge,”  said  Mamma,  in  a fluttered,  mysterious 
manner,  after  going  back  to  the  door  to  see  if  it  was 
tightly  closed,  “ I have  something  to  tell  you  about 
dear  Sylvia.  You  will  hardly  believe  it.” 

“ Yes,  I shall.  Mr.  Monk  has  proposed  to  her.”  I 
was  quite  ashamed  of  having  spoiled  Mamma’s  dis- 
closure, when  I saw  how  she  had  been  intending  to 
creep  gently  up  to  it,  round  and  about. 

“ How  did  you  guess  ? She  couldn’t  have  given 
you  a hint.  She  told  me  she  hadn’t ! ” 

And  Mamma  sat  down,  quite  suddenly,  by  my 
dressing-table. 

“ No,  dear.  She  didn’t  tell  me.  But  7 could  have 
told  her — eighteen  months  ago.” 

“ Oh  no,  my  dear ! It  was  only  yesterday.  In  the 
afternoon.  He  proposed  just  by  that  lead  god  (Apollo, 
I think),  with  the  water  trickling  down  his  cheek  out 
of  the  basket  on  his  head — near  the  bowling  green. 
Eighteen  months  ago!  You  don’t  suppose  she  would 
have  kept  me  in  the  dark  for  a year  and  a half?  It 
was  yesterday.  And  Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge 
both  wish  it.  It  is  very  flattering  that  they  should. 
He  says  so.” 

“ Says  it  is  flattering  ? ” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XVIl] 


US 


“No,  my  dear:  but  that  they  are  quite  anxious 
she  should  accept  him.” 

“ As  she  has,  no  doubt.” 

“ No,  my  dear.  She  told  him  she  would  bear  it  in 
mind.” 

“ Bear  it  in  mind ! ” 

“ Well,  she  said  she  would  give  it  her  careful  con- 
sideration : it  means  the  same  thing.  She  told  him  she 
would  talk  it  over  with  me.” 

“ Did  she  think  you  likely  to  object?  ” 

“ I don’t  see  why  she  should,  though  she  is  very 
young — eighteen  and  a half.  But  I was  only  just 
eighteen  when  I married  your  dear  papa — and  we  had 
been  engaged  four  months.” 

“ And  Sylvia  is  much  older  for  her  age  than  you 
were.” 

“ Yes.  I was  very  young  at  eighteen.  I had  not 
Sylvia’s  decision  of  character.  When  your  dear  papa 
proposed  I fainted.” 

“ I’m  sure  Sylvia  did  not  faint,”  I observed,  smiling 
grimly. 

“ No,  dear.  She  has  such  self-command.  And  it 
wasn’t,  she  confesses,  wholly  unexpected : he  had  tried 
to  propose  (more  than  once)  before,  only  she  wouldn’t 
let  him ” 

“ So  she  let  him  yesterday.  I wonder  she  didn’t 
say  ‘ Yes  ’ at  once.” 

I believe  Mamma  was  really  more  surprised  that 
she  had  not  than  I was.  Nothing  Sylvia  ever  did 
surprised  me,  for  I never  had  the  least  idea  what  she 
would  do.  It  is  when  we  think  we  know  how  people 
are  likely  to  behave  that  they  are  constantly  surpris- 
ing us. 


n6  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xvii 

“ She  does  not  seem  at  all  excited,”  Mamma  re- 
marked presently ; “ she  takes  it  almost  as  a matter 
of  course.” 

“ So  it  is.  I only  wonder  it  has  taken  so  long.  The 
very  day  we  went  to  luncheon  there  first  I felt  sure  he 
would  propose  to  her.” 

“ Did  you  really,  my  dear?  Well,  it  never  occurred 
to  me.  I should  have  been  less  surprised  if  it  had  been 
that  young  cavalry  officer — Sir  Hector  FitzNorris — 
who  was  staying  at  Monkspark;  he  paid  her  more 
marked  attention,  and  came  over  here  several  times. 
I thought  his  attentions  very  marked,  and  she  seemed 
to  have  no  objection.” 

“ I dare  say  she  had  no  objection.  If  he  liked  it,  it 
didn’t  harm  her.” 

“ But,  Madge,  your  sister  is  not  a flirt.” 

“ Not  in  the  least.  But  she  never  flirted  with  Sir 
Hector.  If  he  chose  to  run  after  her,  she  was  not 
bound  to  run  away — she  never  does  run.  Am  I to  say 
anything  about  this  to  her?  ” 

“ Well,  no,  not  unless  she  begins ; you  can’t  con- 
gratulate her  till  we  know  what  she  has  decided.” 

“ I know  that  already.” 

“ You  think  she  will  refuse  him?  You  think  she  is 
not  in  love  with  him  ? ” 

“ My  dear  Mamma,  I haven’t  the  least  idea  how 
Sylvia  would  look  if  she  were  in  love.  But  I am  quite 
sure  she  won’t  refuse  Mr.  Monk — definitely.  May  I 
tell  Perkin?” 

“ She  said  / might  tell  you;  and  I don’t  see  why 
you  shouldn’t  tell  your  brother.  Only  make  him  be 
careful — he  likes  to  tease  her.” 

So  we  went  down  to  dinner,  and  found  Sylvia  in 


MONKSBRIDGE 


117 


CH.  XVIl] 

the  drawing-room  reading  a review  Lord  Monksbridge 
had  lent  her.  She  looked  lovely.  Her  dress  was  sim- 
ple, but  she  always  dressed  perfectly;  and  in  the  last 
year  and  a half  she  had  certainly  improved,  though 
she  had  needed  no  improvement.  She  was  taller,  and 
her  figure  was  more  graceful  than  ever.  No  one  could 
be  surprised  that  Mr.  Monk  should  admire  her. 

She  got  up,  and  put  her  review  aside,  saying  with 
a cool  smile — 

“ You  two  have  been  gossiping.” 

Mamma  gave  a little  laugh,  and  I,  finding  my  sister 
in  a peculiarly  amiable  humour,  took  her  hand  and 
pressed  it,  as  I was  not  to  say  anything. 

“ Nothing  is  decided,”  she  said  quietly;  “ we  had 
better  not  discuss  it.” 

Then  dinner  was  announced,  and  we  went  away  to 
the  dining-room,  where  she  talked  about  the  article  on 
University  Reform  Lord  Monksbridge  had  asked  her 
to  read. 

“ Perkin  had  better  hurry  up,”  she  observed,  smiling 
seriously.  “ Once  they  set  to  on  the  Universities  you 
don’t  know  what  they  will  touch.” 

At  Abbot’s  there  was  a special  scholarship  only  to 
be  gained  once  in  five  years,  or  rather,  the  scholarship 
was  at  Belesme  College  in  Oxford,  open  to  none  but 
Abbotites ; it  was  worth  over  three  hundred  a year  and 
considered  a sort  of  blue  ribbon  among  scholarships. 
The  examinations  for  it  would  take  place  in  less  than 
a year,  and  Perkin  would  then  be  just  old  enough  to 
compete;  the  Warden  thought  his  chance  of  success 
very  good. 

“ Oh ! ” Mamma  cried,  almost  groaning,  “ I do  wish 
Lord  Monksbridge  would  not  interfere  with  the  Uni- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


118 


[CH.  XVII 


versities  till  Perkin  is  safe.  Does  Mr.  Monk  want 
to  destroy  the  scholarships  ? ” 

“ Mr.  Monk  ? I don’t  know  at  all.  It  was  with  his 
father  I was  talking  about  it.  And  you  know  Mr. 
Monk  is  not  in  Parliament  yet.” 

At  the  mention  of  his  name  she  had  looked  quite 
severely  at  us;  the  maid  was  in  the  room,  waiting 
upon  us,  and  Sylvia  did  not  wish  her  to  have  any 
“ ideas  ” about  Mr.  Monk.  At  dessert,  when  we  were 
alone,  she  said  again — 

“ Nothing  is  decided.  Please  do  not  think  it  is. 
Mr.  Monk  quite  understands  that  nothing  is  de- 
cided.” 

“ I’m  sure,”  Mamma  declared,  “ he  will  be  terribly 
disappointed  if  you  don’t  decide  as  he  wishes.” 

Sylvia  shook  her  head  slightly,  not  as  if  she  doubted 
it,  but  because  she  could  not  perceive  that  that  was  the 
point. 

“ It  is,  I am  sure,”  said  Mamma,  “ a most  flattering 
offer.” 

“ Flattering?  ” 

And  Sylvia,  as  she  repeated  the  word,  raised  one 
eyebrow  a little.  She  never  shrugged  her  beautiful 
shoulders,  but  when  she  lifted  one  eyebrow  it  had  just 
the  effect  of  a shrug. 

“ Well,  dear,”  Mamma  tried  hurriedly  to  explain, 
“ he  is  a charming  young  man ” 

“ I should  certainly  not  allow  a nasty  one  to  pro- 
pose to  me,”  my  sister  remarked  in  a calm  parenthesis. 

“ No,  dear;  of  course  not,”  Mamma  went  on  much 
more  hastily.  “ But  then  he  has  everything  on  his 
side ” 

“ Oh,  Mamma!” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XVII  ] 


1 19 


And  I must  say  I never  admired  Sylvia  more  than 
when  she  said  this  with  unfeigned  and  calm  pro- 
test. 

“ I mean,”  poor  Mamma  pleaded,  “ all  the  wealth 
and  position.” 

“ They  have,”  Sylvia  observed,  peeling  her  orange 
gracefully,  “ only  the  makings  of  a position.  And 
wealth  is  nothing  if  you  don’t  know  what  to  do  with 
it.  They  haven’t  the  least  idea.  In  their  hands  the 
position  is  a false  position,  and  the  wealth  almost  a 
vulgarity.” 

“ ‘ They ! ’ ” Mamma  exclaimed.  She  had  not  been 
thinking  at  all  about  Mr.  Monk’s  parents,  and  Sylvia 
hardly  seemed  to  be  thinking  at  all  about  Mr.  Monk. 

Behind  the  rare  exotic  ( from  the  Llanthamy  Castle 
hothouses),  in  one  of  Sir  Stapleton’s  silver  wine- 
coolers,  that  screened  my  face  from  Sylvia’s,  I smiled 
grimly. 

“Yes,”  my  sister  explained,  with  lucid  calmness, 
“ they.  Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge.  Excellent 
creatures!  But  a comic  peer  and  peeress.  And  with 
all  their  wealth  like  a millstone  round  their  necks ! 
How  can  you  say  he  has  everything  on  his  side  ? ” 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  of  “ him,”  and 
I listened  with  keener  interest. 

“ If,”  she  went  on,  with  a faint  heightening  of  col- 
our that  made  her  look  more  lovely  than  ever,  “ he 
had  everything  on  his  side,  I should  not  hesitate  at 
all ” 

“ Ah ! ” cried  Mamma,  much  relieved,  “ you  would 
say  yes  ? ” 

Sylvia  almost  frowned,  which  she  never  did  quite. 
“ I should  say  No.  I am  not  a person  who  enjoys 


120 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XVII 


receiving  favours.  If  Mr.  Monk  were  a duke’s  son 
(which  he  couldn’t  be — he  would  be  Lord  Hampden; 
unless  he  were  the  eldest  son,  and  then  he  would  prob- 
ably be  a marquis)  I should  say  No.  I could  be  of 
no  use  to  him.” 

“ But,  my  dear,”  Mamma  expostulated,  quite  har- 
rowed in  her  tender  feelings  for  the  duke’s  son,  “ if 
he  loved  you  ? And  with  your  beauty ! ” 

“ I could  do  nothing  for  him,”  Sylvia  went  on 
firmly.  “ As  for  his  being  in  love,  that  would  be  his 
affair.  One  can’t  marry  every  one  who  may  be  in 
love  with  one.  But  I could  do  a good  deal  for  the 
Monksbridge  family,  if  I decided  to  do  what  Mr.  Monk 
suggests.  We  have  family.  And  breeding.  And  I 
should  be  able  to — make  their  position  for  them,  and 
teach  them  how  to  be  rich  without  being  a laughing- 
stock.” 

I could  see  plainly  that  the  prospect  of  doing  all 
this  appealed  to  her.  She  spoke  with  unusual  fluency 
and  directness,  and  with  the  animation  that  her  beauty 
sometimes  lacked  to  make  it  really  interesting.  Of  her 
beauty  itself  she  never  said  a word,  and  thought,  I am 
sure,  very  little.  She  was  not  in  the  least  vain.  Her 
beauty  was  merely  a part  of  herself,  and  it  was  with 
herself  as  a whole  that  she  was  serenely  satisfied.  No 
doubt  Mr.  Monk  thought  of  her  beauty,  but  he  was 
only  a young  man;  she  was  not  thinking  of  any  young 
man,  but  of  the  next  Lady  Monksbridge.  It  would  be 
suitable,  of  course,  that  the  next  Lady  Monksbridge 
should  be  beautiful — it  would  be  a part  of  her  dis- 
tinction. It  was  because  I thoroughly  understood  all 
this  that  I came  to  understand  fully  my  sister’s  idea 
of  her  Mission.  And  when  I went  into  Mamma’s 


ch.  xvii]  MONKSBRIDGE  121 

room  at  bed-time  to  kiss  her  and  say  good  night,  I 
whispered — 

“ You  needn’t  be  in  the  least  suspense.  She  will 
marry  him.” 

“ But,  Madge,  she  hardly  says  a word  about  him. 
Why  do  you  think  she  cares  for  him  ? ” 

“ Oh,  she  never  thinks  of  that.  She  thinks  it  will 
be  her  duty.” 

“For  our  sakes?  Of  course  it  would  be  a great 
thing  for  us  all — for  you  and  Perkin.  But  I shouldn’t 
like  her  to  do  it  for  that.  We  can  get  on  very  well 
as  we  are.” 

I couldn’t  help  laughing  a little  as  I kissed  her 
again. 

“ No,  Mugs,  she  wouldn’t  do  it  for  that,”  I said, 
as  I kissed  her  pretty  ear,  like  a pink  shell.  “ It  won’t 
be  for  our  sakes,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  Monksbridge 
family.” 

And,  laughing  a little,  I hugged  dear  Mamma,  and 
ran  off  to  avoid  explanations. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


On  the  following  morning  Sylvia  said  nothing  to 
either  of  us  about  Mr.  Monk  directly,  though  she 
talked  quite  willingly  of  her  visit  to  Llanthamy 
Castle. 

“ It  is  certainly  a very  fine  house,”  she  observed 
dispassionately.  “ Really  enormous.  But  they  don’t 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  I should  think  that  there 
are  dozens  of  bedrooms  no  one  has  ever  slept  in — 
Lady  Monksbridge  said  as  much.  They  know  so  few 
people  at  all  intimately;  and  of  course  Mr.  Monk’s 
friends  are  merely  young  men — they  come;  but  I don’t 
fancy  he  has  many  friends  whom  he  invites  to  stay 
there.  And  a succession  of  young  men,  even  if  there 
were  scores  of  them,  would  be  no  good — none  what- 
ever.” 

Mamma  did  not  know  why,  but  felt  she  ought  to, 
and  did  not  like  to  ask. 

“ It  is,”  Sylvia  declared,  “ a house  that  should  have 
a great  position  of  its  own,  on  its  own  account,  but  it 
has  practically  none.  There  are  people  who  are  made 
by  their  house,  but  Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge  are 
only  swallowed  up  by  their  Castle.  Look  at  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  B rocas- Jones ; if  they  hadn’t  Fell  Court  they 
would  be  nobodies.  They  are  both  of  them  plain,  dull 
people ; they  have  no  appearance  and  no  manners,  and 
they  have  nothing  to  say  to  anybody  that  anybody 
on  earth  wants  to  hear.  But  they  aren’t  nobodies — 


122 


MONKSBRIDGE 


123 


CH.  XVIIl] 

Fell  Court  does  everything  for  them.  It  has  been  Fell 
Court  for  four  centuries,  and  there  have  always  been 
Brocases  there.  But  Llanthamy  Castle  has  never  had 
any  position,  and  it  can’t  give  Lord  and  Lady  Monks- 
bridge  any,  though  it  is  at  least  six  times  as  big  as 
Fell  Court.  It  is  very  sad.” 

“ Perhaps,”  I suggested  airily,  “ Lord  and  Lady 
Monksbridge  don’t  mind  being  nobodies.” 

“She  doesn’t,”  Sylvia  admitted  frankly;  “she 
would  rather  be  less  than  she  is — if  she  could.  But  he 
would  like  to  be  somebody  if  he  knew  how.  He  is  not 
a stupid  man,  and  he  must  know  that  it  is  stupid  to  be 
a peer  with  seventy  or  eighty  thousand  a year,  and  to 
be  really  of  not  the  least  consequence.  He  is,”  she 
added  calmly,  “a  man  with  a sense  of  right,  and  I 
can  see  that  he  feels  it.  It  is  not  fair  to  a neighbour- 
hood to  have  a great  place  like  Llanthamy  Castle,  with 
a huge  estate  round  it,  empty  and  useless.” 

“If  Mr.  Monk  married  well ” Mamma  began 

with  furtive  diplomacy. 

“ Dear  Mamma,”  Sylvia  interposed  firmly,  “ noth- 
ing is  decided.  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  that.  I was 
merely  talking  of  the  general  principle.” 

“ Perhaps,”  I suggested,  “ Mamma  was  only  mean- 
ing the  general  principle.  Mr.  Monk  might  marry  a 
duke’s  daughter.” 

“ No,  I think  not,”  Sylvia  replied,  after  a moment’s 
cool  consideration;  “ I don’t  think  he  could.  I fancy 
the  only  duke  he  knows  at  all  is  the  Duke  of  Tilbury, 
here  at  Castle  Peovor,  and  that  very  slightly ; and  you 
know  Lady  Adelberta  and  Lady  Maria  are  nearly  fifty. 
I must  say  Llanthamy  Castle  is  kept  up  perfectly. 
There  are  nine  housemaids,  and  their  chef  is  a treasure 


124 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XVIII 

(though  Lady  Monksbridge  says  he  is  not  honest)  ; 
but  then  she  prefers  boiled  mutton  to  anything,  and 
what’s  the  good  of  a chef  when  you  like  boiled  neck 
of  mutton  better  than  anything?” 

“ I hoped,”  said  Mamma,  with  a puzzled  disappoint- 
ment in  her  tone,  “ that  you  were  enjoying  your  visit. 
I like  being  there;  Lady  Monksbridge  is  always  so 
nice  to  me.” 

“ Yes,  she  is  nice;  and  so  is  he.  Oh  yes,  I enjoyed 
my  visit,  but  one  longs  to  set  them  right.  I couldn’t 
help  feeling  that  all  the  time.” 

“ Well,  dear,  and  why  shouldn’t  you  set  it  all  right, 
as  you  say?  You  seem  so  thoroughly  to  understand 
what  is  amiss.” 

“ Dear  Mamma,  nothing  is  decided,”  Sylvia  ex- 
postulated, shaking  her  head  a little.  “ Please  let  us 
keep  to  the  general  principle.” 

I must  say  I began  to  doubt  whether  I had  not  been 
hasty  in  assuring  Mamma  that  Sylvia  would  certainly 
marry  Mr.  Monk. 

We  all  went  that  day  to  luncheon  at  Monkspark. 
We  had  been  engaged  to  go  before  Sylvia  went  to 
stay  at  Llanthamy  Castle,  and  she  had  returned  on 
purpose  to  keep  this  engagement,  gently  but  firmly 
refusing  Lady  Monksbridge’s  earnest  request  that  she 
would  stay  on  at  Llanthamy,  and  send  word  that  she 
was  doing  so  to  Mamma. 

“ Of  course  I could  not  do  that,”  Sylvia  explained 
to  us;  “ it  would  be  as  much  as  to  say  that  something 
was  decided.” 

“ I wish  you  had  stayed  on,”  Mamma  confessed  in- 
cautiously; “ I could  easily  have  made  your  excuses  to 
Mr.  de  Braose  and  Lady  Gladys.” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


125 


CH.  XVIIl] 

“No;  that  would  not  have  done.  They  would  have 
guessed  something — and  you  know  Lady  Gladys  is 
rather  a gossip.  And  Lady  Llantwddwy  is  driving 
us  there.  You  would  have  had  to  explain  to  her ; and 
she  is  always  on  the  look-out  for  engagements.  She 
would  tell  every  one  it  was  decided.” 

So  we  all  three  were  driven  out  to  Monkspark  by 
Lady  Llantwddwy,  who  was  full  of  curiosity  to  hear 
all  about  Sylvia’s  visit  to  Llanthamy  Castle. 

“ Oh  yes ! ” my  sister  answered,  in  reply  to  half 
a dozen  leading  questions.  “ I enjoyed  it  very  much. 
I am  so  fond  of  Lady  Monksbridge — no  one  who 
knows  her  well  could  help  it.  They  are  very  hospit- 
able. No,  hardly  any  one  came  to  dinner;  and  no  one 
was  staying  there,  except  an  old  cousin  of  Lord 
Monksbridge’s,  a Miss  Pilkin.  Dull?  No,  I 
am  never  dull  anywhere.  And  they  are  not  dull 
people.” 

“ Mr.  Monk  is  clever,  they  tell  me,”  said  the 
Viscountess,  with  demure  alertness. 

“Yes;  so  I hear  too.  I should  think  it  is  true. 
He  was  only  there  part  of  the  time.  You  asked  about 
the  menage;  well,  it  is  all  very  fine.  They  have  legions 
of  servants,  and  very  good  ones,  and  the  style  of  liv- 
ing is  excellent.  I think  their  chef  would  suit  you 
better  than  Lady  Monksbridge — she  likes  boiled  mut- 
ton and  parsley  sauce.” 

I must  say  that  I admired  the  way  in  which  my  sis- 
ter, with  her  placid  ingenuousness,  defeated  all  that 
old  woman’s  inquisitiveness.  And  I could  see  how  it 
gave  Sylvia  a calm  pleasure  to  perceive  that  Lady 
Llantwddwy  was  sure  “ nothing  had  come  ” of  the 
visit. 


126 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XVIII 


“Ah,”  said  Lady  Gladys  de  Braose,  as  she  wel- 
comed us,  “ so  Sylvia  has  torn  herself  away  from  the 
charms  of  Llanthamy  Castle!  We  thought  they  would 
have  inveigled  her  into  staying  on.” 

“ Oh  no,”  said  Sylvia.  “ There  was  no  idea  of  that. 
I was  only  asked  till  Monday.” 

Lady  Gladys  was  forty-four,  perhaps  three  years 
older  than  her  husband,  and  had  long  professed  great 
delicacy  of  health,  but  she  was  still  very  good-looking, 
having  been  a beauty  and  an  heiress.  Almost  all  the 
de  Braoses  married  beauties  and  heiresses  except  the 
squire  who  had  preceded  the  present  Mr.  de  Braose’s 
father,  who  had  only  married  an  heiress — our  neigh- 
bour Lady  Llantwddwy. 

Mr.  de  Braose  looked  quite  as  old  as  his  wife,  and 
had  thin  hair  and  rather  watery  eyes : he  was  a regu- 
lar de  Braose,  whereas  his  brother  Eustace  had  in- 
herited his  mother’s  good  looks — as  she  frequently 
informed  the  public.  Still  Mr.  de  Braose  looked  dis- 
tinguished; his  features  were  rather  over-refined,  as 
was  his  voice;  and,  if  his  eyes  and  hair  were  weak, 
they  suggested  the  idea  that  they  had  been  wearing  so 
during  centuries.  His  manners  were  very  good,  ami- 
able, though  not  intimate;  and  though  he  was  stout, 
like  his  mother,  he  was  tall  enough  to  seem  merely 
portly:  and  he  was  not  more  than  stout;  only  a po- 
litical opponent  in  the  blindness  of  party  feeling  could 
have  called  him  really  fat.  Lady  Gladys  was  in 
mourning.  After  several  years  of  married  life  she  had 
borne  a son,  and  the  child,  about  ten  months  after  our 
arrival  at  Monksbridge,  had  died,  which  surprised  no 
one  but  his  father,  who  had  the  highest  ideas  of  duty 
in  one’s  station.  He  had  always  done  his:  but  how 


MONKSBRIDGE 


127 


CII.  XVIIl] 

could  the  heir  of  the  great  Monksbridge  estates  fulfil 
his  duties  except  here  on  earth?  Mr.  de  Braose  was 
never  uncharitable,  but  he  secretly  felt  that  the  child 
who  could  so  desert  his  post  must  have  inherited  some 
of  the  Van  Teuffel  inconsequence.  Lady  Gladys  had 
been  a Van  Teuffel,  and  that  family,  ever  since  Wil- 
liam of  Orange  had  brought  it  over  to  England,  had 
been,  in  spite  of  its  beauty,  inconsequent.  But  Mr.  de 
Braose  was  a fair-minded  man,  and  he  was  not  angry 
with  poor  Lady  Gladys  because  the  only  child  she  had 
borne  him  was  dead:  if  she  came  of  an  inconsequent 
family  he  need  not  have  married  into  it;  that  he  per- 
fectly recognized.  Nor  was  he  angry  with  Eustace 
for  being  at  present  in  quite  a new  position  of  im- 
portance: it  was  not  Eustace’s  fault,  but  that  unper- 
severing baby’s.  As  for  Eustace,  he  was  heartily  sorry 
for  his  brother  and  his  brother’s  wife,  and  for  the 
baby  too,  but  he  did  not  think  of  the  baby  with  the 
slightest  irritation.  He  was  a good-natured  young 
man,  and  could  not  lean  heavily  on  the  failure  to  do 
his  duty  of  a child  who  had  not  injured  him.  No  doubt 
the  poor  little  fellow  would  have  lived  if  he  could — 
he  himself  would  certainly  not  have  died  at  four  years 
old,  had  he  been  born  heir  to  Monkspark  and  twelve 
thousand  a year,  and  able  to  go  on  living. 

Eustace  was  staying  at  Monkspark  now,  and  was 
aware  that  he  had  one  of  the  best  rooms,  which  he 
used  not  to  be  given  in  former  days ; and  he  knew  that 
his  brother,  and  his  sister-in-law,  and  the  servants, 
all  treated  him  as  if  he  had  recently  done  something 
distinguished  and  meritorious.  He  was  very  careful 
now  never  to  ask  any  of  those  little  questions  which 
he  had  been  used  to  ask  by  way  of  showing  a brotherly 


128 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XVIII 


interest  in  the  old  place,  and  the  estate;  but  the  squire 
constantly  told  him  of  this  or  that  plan,  or  projected 
improvement,  inquiring  if  he  approved.  Though  one 
of  the  brothers  was  eighteen  years  younger  than  the 
other,  they  were  very  united. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


The  Duke  of  Tilbury  and  the  Ladies  Adelberta  and 
Maria  Zouche  lunched  at  Monkspark  that  day;  and 
Lord  and  Lady  Closeborough  and  their  son,  Lord 
Chevronel,  were  staying  in  the  house.  The  late 
Duchess  had  been  an  aunt  of  the  present  Mr.  de 
Braose’s ; and  Lady  Closeborough  was  a niece  of  that 
other  Mr.  de  Braose,  who  had  married  Lord  Llantwd- 
dwy’s  widow.  Lord  Chevronel  was,  perhaps,  a year 
or  so  younger  than  Mr.  Eustace  de  Braose  and  he  was 
also  “ in  diplomacy.”  What  I thought  equally  inter- 
esting was  that  he  was  handsome  and  uncommonly 
pleasant;  and  he  evidently  thought  Sylvia  worth  all 
the  attention  she  would  give  him  a chance  of  devoting 
to  her.  It  wasn’t  very  much,  for  she  never  flirted, 
and  she  never  annoyed  people’s  parents  and  guardians 
by  seeming  to  encourage  attentions  that  she  cared  noth- 
ing about. 

The  old  Duke,  who  was  wonderfully  well  preserved 
while  sitting  down  (he  aged,  rather,  when  he  scram- 
bled about),  had  very  sharp  eyes,  and  he  saw  that  Lord 
Chevronel  was  much  more  disposed  to  let  Sylvia  see 
how  much  he  admired  her  than  she  was  to  take  advan- 
tage of  it;  and  his  grace  thought  well  of  her,  and  was 
extremely  civil  to  her.  So  were  his  daughters:  so 
were  Lord  and  Lady  Closeborough.  This  civility  of 
the  last-mentioned  four  dignitaries  became  specially 
decided  after  a little  talk  between  Lady  Adelberta  and 
Sylvia  which  took  place  just  after  luncheon.  We  la- 

129 


130 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXX 

dies  were  in  the  picture-gallery,  and  my  sister  was 
being  shown  a portrait  of  the  late  Duchess  of  Tilbury 
as  a girl  (a  girl  with  feet  much  smaller  than  any- 
body’s hands,  and  eyes  much  larger  than  her  own 
mouth)  trying  to  see  what  o’clock  it  was  by  a sundial 
in  a shady  grove. 

“ It  is  like  both  of  you,”  I heard  Sylvia  observe, 
in  her  low  voice,  with  a glance  from  Lady  Adelberta 
to  Lady  Maria — in  the  distance : I could  only  suppose 
that  the  Duchess’s  eyes  had  been  divided  between 
her  three  sons  and  two  daughters,  and  had  naturally 
grown  smaller  in  the  process. 

Lady  Adelberta  smiled  and  confessed  that  likenesses 
ran  oddly  in  families  even  when  the  features  were 
different. 

“ Gravesend  has  her  nose,”  she  added  (Lord  Grave- 
send was  her  eldest  brother).  “ I am  so  glad  to  meet 
you — Lady  Gladys  was  afraid  they  might  keep  you 
on  at  Llanthamy  Castle ” 

“ Oh  no ! ” said  Sylvia,  smiling.  “ I told  Lady 
Monksbridge  I must  keep  my  engagement — I wanted 
so  much  to  come  here.” 

“ And  she  couldn’t  prevail ! Lady  Gladys  thought 
she  would  prevail.” 

And  I could  see  that  Lady  Adelberta  was  quite  as 
inquisitive  as  Lady  Llanthamy : but  instead  of  defeat- 
ing her  curiosity,  to  my  surprise  I found  Sylvia  this 
time  truckling  to  it:  certainly  it  was  best  to  make 
up  my  mind,  once  and  for  all,  that  I could  never  guess 
what  she  would  do. 

Sylvia  smiled  again,  and  asked  demurely,  “ Why  ? ” 

“ Oh,  my  dear ! You’ll  think  me  so  very  indis- 
creet.” 


ch.  xix]  MONKSBRIDGE  131 

“ Not  at  all.  Why  did  Lady  Gladys  think  I should 
not  be  here — when  we  had  all  promised  ? ” 

“ My  dear  Miss  Auberon — it  seems  so  very  indis- 
creet: you  will  think  me  so  impertinent!  You  know 
Gladys  is  so  romantic.” 

Sylvia  did  not  know  anything  of  the  kind : she  only 
knew  that  her  hostess  was  a gossip  of  the  first  water : 
but  she  smiled  once  more,  as  if  fully  aware  of  Lady 
Gladys’s  romantic  disposition. 

“Romantic!  Yes:  but  what  romance  would  there 
be  in  my  staying  on  with  dear  Lady  Monksbridge  ? ” 
murmured  my  sister  innocently — innocently,  but  not 
forbiddingly. 

“ Ah,  my  dear ! There  might  be  a romance — am  I 
too  indiscreet? — in  which  Lady  Monksbridge  (an  ex- 
cellent woman,  I hear  on  all  sides)  would  be  only  a — 
a third  party.” 

Sylvia  slowly  blushed,  slowly  and  slightly  (and 
how  she  did  it  at  all,  I could  not  understand  then; 
perhaps,  it  now  occurs  to  me,  it  was  to  hear  her  sup- 
posititious mother-in-law  called  an  excellent  woman), 
and  after  a moment’s  pause,  she  looked  down,  and 
round,  and  up,  and  said — 

“ Nothing  is  decided.” 

“ Ah ! ” Lady  Adelberta  almost  whispered.  “ How 
very  nice  of  you!  How  very  nice  of  you  not  to  pun- 
ish my  indiscretion.  And  you  will  find  I am  really 
discreet:  nothing  (I  understand  perfectly)  is  decided” 

“ No,  nothing.” 

It  was  not  long  afterwards  that  Lady  Adelberta 
nailed  (so  to  speak)  her  sister,  in  a corner;  and  I 
think  Lady  Closeborough  was  presently  nailed  in  an- 
other corner.  At  all  events  all  three  ladyships  and 


132 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XIX 

Lord  Closeborough  presently  redoubled  their  civilities 
to  Sylvia.  The  Duke  might  be  as  gallant  as  he  pleased, 
and  so  might  Lord  Chevronel : when  Sylvia  had  said 
nothing  was  decided  Lady  Adelberta  understood  at 
once  that  in  Miss  Auberon  she  beheld  the  next  Lady 
Monksbridge. 

“ Papa,”  said  Lady  Maria,  ambling  over  to  my 
mother  half  an  hour  later,  “ wishes  so  much  you  would 
allow  Miss  Auberon  to  come  and  stay  a few  days  at 
Castle  Peovor.  We  should  enjoy  it  so  much — Adel- 
berta and  I.” 

I saw  Sylvia  listening,  and  I saw  that  something 
had  happened  just  as  she  intended  it  should;  why, 
I could  not  remotely  guess.  And  when  Lady  Close- 
borough,  ten  minutes  later,  sidled  down  into  the  seat 
next  Mamma  and  asked  if  she  could  spare  Miss  Au- 
beron for  a night  or  two,  to  join  in  tableaux  vivants 
at  Close  Chace,  I could  again  perceive  that  Sylvia 
had  gained  some  point — inscrutable  to  me.  When 
Lady  Maria  had  given  her  invitation,  Sylvia’s  face 
was  so  turned  that  Mamma  could  see  her  almost  in- 
visible nod  of  acquiescence,  and  had  accepted  in  the 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  doing  what  she  should.  Now, 
though  I could  see  my  sister’s  face,  Mamma  could 
only  see  Lord  Closeborough’s  back,  and  she  was  not 
so  sure. 

“ You  are  so  kind,”  Mamma  murmured.  “ It  is 
very  kind  of  you.  But  I don’t  quite  know  what  Syl- 
via’s plans  are.  For  the  fifteenth?  There  was  some 
idea  that  about  the  fifteenth  she  would  be  going  to  re- 
visit  ” 

“ Ah ! ” Lady  Closeborough  whispered.  “ I think 
I guess.  No,  no!  I know  nothing  is  decided.  But 


MONKSBRIDGE 


133 


CH.  XIX ] 

by  the  fifteenth,  you  know — three  weeks — if  anything 
should  be  decided  by  then.  We  want  an  extra  young 
man  too.  (Eustace  de  Braose  laughs  too  much  for 
tableaux.)  Do  let  her  come;  and  if  she  could  help  us 
to  a young  man — tall;  I know  he  is  tall — excuse  me, 
I know  it  is  a tall  young  man  we  want!  Miss  Au- 
beron  might  (by  the  fifteenth)  help  us  to  a tall  young 
man.  Pray  understand  that  any  tall  young  man  she 
could  help  us  to  would  be  included  in  the  invitation.” 

All  this  time  I saw  calculation  gleaming  in  the  eye 
of  this  Countess  just  as  if  she  had  been  a Mrs.  Todgers 
— not  calculation  as  to  beds  and  stowage,  but  as  to 
the  much  greater  desirability  of  Miss  Auberon’s  com- 
pany at  Close  Chace  with  a tall  young  man  than  with- 
out. And  Sylvia  half  turned  and  half  nodded,  and 
Mamma  hurriedly  promised  that,  if  her  girl  found  she 
could  go,  she  should.  And  again  I saw  by  Sylvia’s 
face  that  she  had  scored  a point — perhaps  two 
points. 

“ So,  Sylvia,”  said  Lady  Llantwddwy,  as  we  drove 
home,  “ you  are  going  to  stay  at  Castle  Peovor,  and 
at  Close  Chace?” 

“ Yes,”  said  Sylvia,  as  if  she  thought  neither  cir- 
cumstance of  much  importance. 

“ They  are  very  big  houses,”  observed  her  lady- 
ship, somewhat  rashly. 

“ They  would  both  fit  into  Llanthamy  Castle  and 
no  one  know  they  were  there,”  my  sister  remarked 
coolly. 

Lady  Llantwddwy  really  blinked  with  astonish- 
ment ; and  she  disliked  being  astonished  so  much  that 
she  said,  still  more  rashly,  nudging,  so  to  speak,  with 
her  words — 


134  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xix 

“ So  you  would  not  care  to  be  a duchess — or  a 
countess  ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t  care,”  Sylvia  replied,  laughing  gently, 
“ to  have  step-daughters  older  than  Mamma.  Or  a 
mother-in-law  in  drab  and  green  who  thought  herself 
well-dressed.” 

“ Sylvia ! ” gasped  Mamma. 

“ My  dear  Mamma,”  Sylvia  explained,  with  perfect 
ease  of  manner,  “ I was  only  putting  ridiculous  hypo- 
thetical cases.  No  one  on  earth,  not  even  dear  Lady 
Llantwddwy,  thinks  me  in  the  least  likely  to  be  a 
duchess  or  a countess.  Lady  Closeborough  is  good 
enough  to  wish  Mr.  Monk  to  take  part,  and  me  also, 
in  her  tableaux.  I don’t  know  if  he  cares  for  the 
sort  of  thing.” 

Lady  Llantwddwy  gasped  this  time,  and  Mamma, 
needlessly  apprehensive  of  battle,  fidgeted  in  her  seat. 
But  peace  is  often  maintained  by  the  absolute  readi- 
ness for  war  displayed  by  the  best  equipped  of  the  pos- 
sible parties  to  it;  and  Lady  Llantwddwy  instantly 
recognized  that  Sylvia’s  equipment  was  far  more  com- 
plete than  her  own. 

“ I don’t  know,”  my  sister  remarked,  “ whether  Mr. 
Monk  cares  for  being  the  tall  young  man  in  tableaux 
vivants.  I advised  Lady  Closeborough  to  let  Lady 
Gladys  drive  her  over  to  Llanthamy  Castle  and  find 
out.  He  is  certainly  tall,  and  that  seems  to  be  the 
great  thing.” 

“ But,  Sylvia  dear,”  said  the  old  Viscountess,  with 
affable  reproach,  “ you  never  let  on  to  us  about  Mr. 
Monk,  and  I was  dying  to  know;  I was  rather  jealous 
to  hear  it  all  from  Elizabeth  Closeborough.” 

“ Dear  Lady  Llantwddwy,  there  was  nothing  to 


i 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XIX] 


135 


hear.  If  you  think  I said  anything  to  Lady  Close- 

borough ” 

“ No;  Adelberta  told  her.” 

“ Ah,  but  I never  told  Lady  Adelberta  anything — 
she  was  fishing,  you  know;  and  I assured  her  that 
nothing  was  decided.  Mamma  would  know  if  it  was. 
Ask  Mamma  if  she  has  been  told  anything.” 

“ No,  dear,  I really  didn’t  know  anything  till  Lady 

Adelberta  began  congratulating  me ” Mamma  was 

beginning. 

“ And,”  said  Sylvia,  firmly,  “ she  knew  nothing.” 

“ Except,”  Lady  Llantwddwy  remarked,  wagging 
her  long  head  knowingly,  “ that  ‘ nothing  is  decided.’ 
We  must  make  our  own  guesses — and  (if  you  weren’t 
here  to  snub  me)  I should  congratulate  Mrs.  Auberon.” 


CHAPTER  XX 


On  the  following  Sunday  Mr.  Monk  came  to  tea,  and 
so  did  Lord  Chevronel  and  Mr.  Eustace  de  Braose. 
Lord  Chevronel  was  quite  cheerful,  his  cousin  not  par- 
ticularly so;  and  Mr.  Monk,  who  had  arrived  first, 
looked  as  if  he  thought  we  had  more  young  men  than 
was  necessary. 

“ My  mother,”  Lord  Chevronel  told  him,  “ is  going 
over  to  see  Lady  Monksbridge,  to-morrow.  It  is  some 
time  since  she  was  at  Monkspark,  and  she  hasn’t  seen 
your  mother  for  ages.” 

Then,  with  a little  laugh,  he  added : “ She  would 
like  to  find  you  in  too.  For  she  has  a plot  against 
you.  On  the  fifteenth  we  are  breaking  out  into  Tab- 
leaux Vivants,  and  she  wants  you  to  be  a young 
man ” 

“ A tall  young  man,”  Sylvia  suggested  with  her 
most  innocent  sang-froid.  “ Unless  he’s  tall  you’d 
better  warn  him  not  to  attempt  it.” 

If  Sylvia  had  been  as  old  and  plain  as  Miss  Belvoir, 
I dare  say  Lady  Closeborough’s  son  would  have 
thought  her  impertinent : as  it  was  he  did  not  mind  a 
bit,  but  laughed  very  comfortably,  and  said — 

“ She  has  perfect  confidence  in  your  being  tall  by 
the  fifteenth.  Do  think  it  over.  I’m  no  good  at 
tableaux.  I wobble  too  much:  and  Eustace  simmers. 
My  mother  builds  on  you.” 

“ Won’t  she  and  Lady  Gladys  come  to  luncheon 
to-morrow?  And  you  two  as  well.” 

136 


MONKSBRIDGE 


137 


CH.  XX] 

“ I can't.  I’m  engaged,  unfortunately,”  Eustace  de- 
clared gloomily,  looking  as  if  the  misfortune  were  that 
he  wasn’t  engaged. 

“I’m  not,”  said  Lord  Chevronel  with  vivacity. 
“Yes;  thank  you  very  much,  I’ll  tell  them,  and  bring 
them.” 

I am  sure  that  he  thought,  this  innocent  young 
creature,  that  Sylvia  would  be  there:  which  she  had 
not  meant  to  be.  His  Mamma  had  nonchalantly  al- 
luded, in  his  presence,  to  Miss  Auberon’s  engagement, 
and  mentioned  with  a succulent,  almost  caressing  lin- 
gering over  the  figures,  that  Lord  Monksbridge  had  a 
hundred  thousand  a year,  which  was  only  double  his 
actual  income.  And  he  had  not  minded  in  the  least; 
the  eldest  son  of  an  Earl  with  only  a nominal  twenty 
thousand  a year,  and  thirty  years  of  life  in  him,  can’t 
look  to  afford  luxuries  that  lie  open  to  only  sons  of  a 
hundred  thousand  a year.  But  he  thought  Monk  un- 
commonly lucky;  he  and  Eustace  de  Braose  had 
known  him,  slightly,  at  Eton,  and  Lord  Chevronel 
thought  him  a decent  fellow,  but  “ sticky.”  Miss  Au- 
beron  he  foresaw,  with  his  cheerful  common  sense, 
would  be  the  makings  of  the  Monksbridge  family. 
Meanwhile  he  liked  looking  at  her,  not  obtrusively, 
and  talking  to  or  near  her. 

Eustace  did  not  feel  like  that.  He  could  (and,  now 
Miss  Auberon  was  engaged,  he  thought  that  he  would) 
have  behaved  quite  differently  had  he  foreseen  that  his 
poor  little  nephew  would  behave  as  he  had.  As  a mere 
attache,  with  an  income  chiefly  supplied  by  his  mother, 
and  the  rest  of  it  due  to  his  elder  brother’s  correct 
family  feeling,  he  had  perceived,  when  he  first  met  her, 
that  Miss  Auberon  was  out  of  the  question.  She,  he 


MONKSBRIDGE 


138 


[CH.  XX 


had  known,  had  taken  it  for  granted : and,  with  her 
wonderful,  silent  tact,  had  let  him  understand  that  he 
was  not  to  indulge  in  any  foolish  idea  of  admiring 
her.  But  now  he  could  please  himself.  Miss  Au- 
beron,  he  knew,  was  quite  as  fit  to  reign  at  Monkspark 
as  his  sister-in-law  was,  as  his  mother  or  his  aunt 
had  been.  He  was  not  mercenary,  and  he  was  not  in 
the  least  a snob:  he  need  not,  now,  marry  an  heiress, 
and  he  would  as  lief  his  wife  should  be  plain  Mrs.  de 
Braose  as  that  she  should  be  Lady  Gwendoline,  or  the 
Honble.  Mrs.  de  Braose. 

And  Miss  Auberon  was  to  be  the  next  Lady  Monks- 
bridge!  He  also  admitted  the  suitability  of  the  ar- 
rangement: she  would  give  Llanthamy  Castle  all  it 
needed : but  then  he  did  not  care  sixpence  for  the 
regeneration  of  Llanthamy  Castle,  and  felt  much  more 
interest  in  the  future  mistress  of  Monkspark.  Why 
hadn’t  he,  miraculously,  foreseen  what  Fate’s  jum- 
blings  and  jugglings  would  bring  forth?  He  hadn’t: 
and,  without  any  dark  and  deep  desires  that  Monk’s 
happiness  should  be  filched  away  from  him,  he  could 
feel  no  pleasure  in  assisting  at  his  triumph. 

When  Lady  Gladys  had  remarked  on  Miss  Au- 
beron’s  wonderful  luck,  he  had  felt  inclined  to  express 
the  conviction  of  several  years  that  she  was  a fool : 
but  of  course  he  hadn’t.  He  was  a well-bred,  civil 
brother-in-law:  he  had  only  observed,  quite  politely — 

“ Ah ! ladies  always  think  of  the  lady’s  luck : men 
only  think  of  the  man’s.  I don’t  know  that  we  thought 
much  of  Monk  at  Eton.” 

“ He’s  rather  capable,”  Mr.  de  Braose  had  observed 
with  judicial  candour,  “ and  not,  I think,  much  of  a 
Radical.  Miss  Auberon  changera  tout  g ela.” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


139 


CH.  XX] 

“ Eton ! Radicals ! ” Lady  Gladys  had  scoffed. 
“ What  has  all  that  nonsense  to  do  with  it  ? He  will 
have  ninety  thousand  a year : and  he’s  as  presentable 
as  any  man  in  Rentshire ” 

“Llanthamy  is  not  in  Rentshire,”  her  husband  in- 
terrupted quite  angrily. 

“ Or  in  Llanfairthamyshire,”  Lady  Gladys  con- 
tinued, unmoved.  “ And  Sylvia  will  work  them  up. 
She  is  a genius ” 

“ And  quite  beautiful,”  Eustace  murmured  un- 
guardedly. 

“ Yes,”  said  his  sister-in-law,  with  a glance  at  her 
husband  as  if  she  were  saying  grace.  “ Quite  beau- 
tiful. She’s  the  least  vain  girl  I know:  but  she  is: 
and  she  knows  exactly  what  it  is  worth.  With  her 
looks,  and  her  air  (a  parson’s  daughter,  but  undeni- 
able) and  his  money,  she  will  be  leading  us  all  by  the 
nose  presently.” 

“ I don’t  see  that  at  all,”  said  Mr.  de  Braose,  swal- 
lowing a grape  sooner  than  he  had  intended. 

“ But  she  will.  She’s  a very  clever  girl.  Ambi- 
tious  ” 

“ And  I should  say  her  ambition  would  be  satisfied 
by  marrying  a man  with  Monk’s  property.” 

“ Not  it ! She’s  far  too  clever  to  think  the  present 
position  of  the  Monksbridges  anything.  She  under- 
stands it  all,  as  if  she’d  been  born  a Duchess:  depend 
upon  it  she  thinks  she  is  obliging  them  by  marrying 
into  the  family ” 

“ Of  course,  they  are  nothing,”  Mr.  de  Braose  in- 
terposed with  grim  complacency. 

“ And  Sylvia  knows  it  as  well  as  you  do.  Only 
she  will  enjoy  making  them  something.  Had  she  mar- 


140 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XX 

ried  a Duke  there’d  be  nothing  for  her  to  do;  it  would 
be  all  ready-made.  She  would  be  married  and  done 

for  like  any  other  Duchess ” 

“ Gladys ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  de  Braose,  as  if  he 
thought  his  wife’s  expressions  less  than  parliamentary, 
as  they  often  were.  “ You  run  on  rather.  Miss  Au- 
beron  marry  a Duke ! ” 

“ As  to  that,  Boody,  she  would  marry  just  whom 
she  chose.  If  she  made  up  her  mind  to  it,  she’d  be 
Duchess  of  Tilbury,  and  Adelberta  and  Maria  should 
thank  her  and  Providence  that  she  doesn’t  care  in  the 
least  to  be  their  step-mamma.” 

Mr.  de  Braose  almost  shuddered ; the  mere  mention 
of  such  things  was  like  talking  of  the  devil,  which  is 
always  supposed  to  invite  his  attentions.  Eustace 
groaned  inwardly:  here  was  a girl  whom  his  own 
sister-in-law  thought  capable  of  being  a Duchess ! and 
he  had  not  had  the  pluck  to  indulge  the  admiration  she 
had  inspired  in  him  at  their  very  first  meeting. 

“ Boody  doesn’t  understand  a bit,”  Lady  Gladys 
confided  to  him  afterwards.  “ He  only  thinks  of  posi- 
tion and  all  that.  I’m  sure  we  ought  all  to  be  very 
grateful  to  her.  She  might  have  married  any  of  us — 
I’m  sure  your  mother  thinks  so.” 

Certainly  Lady  Gladys  had  her  share  of  the  Van 
Teuffel  inconsequence;  but,  at  that  moment,  her 
brother-in-law  was  not  so  sure  of  her  being  a fool. 


CHAPTER  XXI 


Just  before  tea  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  Perkin 
walked  in  with  Hubert  Byrne,  and  I could  see  at  once 
that  Sylvia  thought  their  arrival  inopportune.  So,  I 
think,  did  the  young  men,  at  all  events  two  of  them. 
Boys  of  that  sort  of  age  are  apt  to  bore  young  men 
who  have  come  to  see  the  sister  of  one  of  the  boys. 

Even  Mamma  felt  it  awkward:  she  was  very  fond 
of  Perkin,  and  she  liked  Hubert;  she  would  probably 
have  enjoyed  their  company  quite  as  well  as  that  of 
Lord  Chevronel  and  Mr.  de  Braose  had  she  and  I 
been  alone;  as  it  was  she  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  them.  Mr.  Monk  greeted  Perkin  with  the  cor- 
diality due  to  a hypothetic  brother-in-law,  and  tried 
to  look  as  if  nothing  of  the  kind  was  in  his  mind. 
Lord  Chevronel  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  be  giv- 
ing Sylvia’s  brother  a handsome  tip  on  his  departure 
for  a distant  seat  of  learning.  Sylvia  herself  was 
almost  regretting  that  her  choice  had  fallen  on  a school 
so  near  home. 

As  soon  as  decency  permitted  I (a  good-natured 
person,  though  of  no  consequence)  threw  myself  into 
the  breach. 

“ Perkin,”  I said  in  a loud  aside,  “ I want  to  talk 
secrets.  Come  out  into  the  garden.” 

Though  I cannot  defend  the  practice  in  general,  I 
winked,  and  Perkin  said — 

“ All  right.  Come  along,  Hubs.” 

And  we  “ saved  ourselves  ” (as  I had  recently  gath- 


142 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXI 

ered  from  Mademoiselle  was  the  French,  and  signifi- 
cant, expression).  We  did  it  by  a window,  and  Mr. 
de  Braose  took  advantage  of  it  and  followed  us. 

“ I don’t  believe  in  the  secrets,”  he  explained  apolo- 
getically. 

“ No.  There  aren’t  any,”  I confessed  ingenuously. 
“ But  we  three  were  in  the  way,  and  I determined  on 
flight.  I would  have  brought  Mamma  too,  if  I could.” 

Eustace  was  in  that  depressed  frame  of  mind  that 
leads  people  to  be  unusually  complacent  to  the  un- 
important members  of  a family;  it  was  my  striking 
inferiority  to  Sylvia  that  drew  him  my  way — and  Per- 
kin’s. She  was  our  sister,  and  we  had  nothing  in 
common  with  her  serene  and  prosperous  superi- 
ority. 

He  was  rather  nice  to  Perkin,  and  disposed  to  treat 
me  as  a poultice — homely  but  soothing.  I was  flat- 
tered. 

“ I remember  so  well,”  he  observed,  when  we  were 
a little  way  from  the  house,  and  the  two  boys  had 
disappeared  somewhere,  “ the  day  you  came  to  see  my 
mother.” 

We  were  walking  by  the  river  in  full  view  of  Island 
Court,  so  that  his  remark  was  not  unnatural. 

“ Oh  yes.  So  do  I,”  said  I,  in  my  matter-of-fact 
way — remembering  perfectly  that  he  had  not  had  two 
words  to  throw  to  me. 

Perhaps  he  also  recalled  the  circumstance,  for  he 
had  slightly  glanced  at  me  and  was  able  to  note  that 
the  bud  of  my  inferiority  to  Sylvia  had  burst  into  full 
and  legitimate  bloom.  I think  it  cheered  him.  If  I 
had  been  a proper  twin,  hardly  distinguishable  apart 
from  my  wonderful  sister,  I shouldn’t  have  been  of  the 


MONKSBRIDGE 


143 


CH.  XXl] 

slightest  use  as  a poultice.  I should  have  been  equally 
beautiful,  which  would  have  distracted  his  attention, 
and  equally  clever,  and  then  he  could  not  have  solilo- 
quized. 

“ It  seems,”  he  said,  “ a long  while  ago.” 

“ Nineteen  months.  A year  and  seven  months,” 
I suggested  with  all  my  striking  originality. 

The  most  conscientious  historian  need  not  detail 
every  conversation,  and  ours  was  conducted  through- 
out on  these  lines.  He  sighed  a little,  and  was  dis- 
posed to  reminiscence;  I did  not  sigh,  but  verified 
dates  and  advanced  no  ambitious  claims  to  individual 
existence  apart  from  my  brilliant  sister.  I think  he 
found  my  stupidity  restful. 

“ Is  that  handsome  boy’s  surname  Hubbs  ? ” he 
asked,  with  languid  interest,  as  Perkin  and  his  friend 
reappeared  on  the  horizon. 

“Oh  no!  Hubert  Byrne  is  his  name.  Perkin  has 
nicknames  for  everybody.  Mamma  is  Mugs,  and  I’m 
Maggies;  and  Sylvia  is  Bubs — short  for  Syllabubs.” 

My  companion  shuddered  slightly;  not  that  he  re- 
sented my  being  called  Maggies,  or  even  that  our 
mother  was  “ Mugs  ” in  my  brother’s  homely  nomen- 
clature. 

“ Hubert  is  the  son  of  Dr.  Byrne  over  in  Llan- 
thamy,”  I added,  with  my  native  love  of  imparting 
useless  information. 

“ Ah ! ” said  Eustace  with  gloomy  satisfaction,  “ the 
Catholic  doctor ! And  the  Monksbridges  loathe 
Catholics.” 

“ I don’t  think  you’re  quite  right  there  ” said  I, 
asserting  myself  (since  Perkin’s  friend  was  concerned, 
and  Perkin’s  friends  were  almost  a part  of  him), 


144  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxi 

“ Dr.  Byrne  is  their  doctor — at  least  he  doctors  their 
servants.” 

Eustace  laughed  a little,  and  I preferred  him  in  his 
sighing  humour.  But  when  Perkin  and  Hubert  came 
up  he  was  quite  nice  to  both  of  them. 

“ I think,”  I observed,  snatching  at  a yawn  with  my 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  no  more  catching  it  there 
than  if  it  had  been  a wasp,  “ it  is  time  to  go  in.  Tea 
will  be  ready.  Come  along,  all  of  us.” 

“ Thank  you,  Miss  Auberon,”  said  Hubert,  “ I must 
say  good  afternoon ” 

“ Oh,  you  must  come  in  to  tea,”  I urged,  with  flaccid 
hospitality,  thinking  of  Sylvia  and  Mr.  Monk,  and 
Lord  Chevronel. 

“ No,”  Perkin  put  in,  brusquely,  “ he’s  not  coming 
to  tea  to-day.  I’m  going  to  tea  with  him.” 

Dear  Perkin!  How  well  I understood  the  superi- 
ority of  his  hospitality  to  mine!  No  friend  of  his 
should  ever  feel  at  our  table  that  any  one  in  our  home 
wished  him  away. 

“ But,”  I urged  weakly,  “ you  must  be  at  church, 
Perkin.” 

On  Sunday  evenings  all  the  Cardinal’s  boys  had 
to  be  in  their  place  in  the  choir. 

“ That’ll  be  all  right.  Church  is  not  till  half-past 
six;  and  it’s  not  five  yet.” 

“ I’ll  shoot  him  off  in  time,”  said  Hubert,  with  the 
entrancing  smile  that  showed  all  his  good-natured 
teeth. 

“ They’re  nice  boys,”  said  Mr.  de  Braose  as  the  two 
lads  went  off.  And  I was  pleased  with  him  for  say- 
ing so. 

“ Perkin  and  I have  always  been  chums,”  I ex- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


145 


CH.  XXl] 

plained,  with  a burst  of  my  native  tact.  He  looked 
at  me  and  evidently  understood  that  I could  be  no 
fit  “chum”  for  Sylvia;  it  was  natural  that  our 
obvious  inferiority  should  throw  Perkin  and  me  to- 
gether. 

“ Yes,”  he  said,  “ I can  see  that.” 

And  I fancy  he  pitied  Sylvia  that  her  family  pro- 
vided no  one  she  could  regard  as  a confidante  worthy 
of  her. 

He  made  it  so  plain  that  I was  rather  nettled  on 
Perkin’s  account. 

“ My  brother,”  I observed  warmly,  “ is  the  only 
one  of  us  who  inherits  papa’s  cleverness.  They  think 
— the  Warden  and  all  of  them — that  he  will  be  very 
distinguished.” 

But  Mr.  de  Braose  was  not  really  thinking  much  of 
Perkin. 

“ Ah ! ” he  said  politely.  Then,  after  a pause  that 
nearly  brought  us  to  the  verandah,  “ I wonder  if  I 
ought  to  congratulate  you?  Perhaps  you  will  think  I 
hardly  know  you  well  enough.  And  I dare  say  you 
do  not  feel  that  the  prospect  of  losing  your  sister  is 
much  of  a matter  for  congratulation.” 

I was  glad  we  were  so  near  the  window.  “ Oh, 
but,”  I said  hurriedly,  “ if  she  likes  it ! ” And  I dived 
into  the  drawing-room  with  the  sound  of  a sigh  over 
my  shoulder. 

“ Perkin,”  I announced,  “ has  gone  away  to  tea  with 
Hubert ” 

“ Hubert  ? ” queried  Sylvia,  as  if  she  hardly  re- 
called the  name,  or  thought  my  use  of  it  needlessly 
intimate. 


146  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxi 

“ Yes,  Hubert  Byrne.  And  he  has  promised  to  fire 
Perkin  of?  in  good  time  for  church.” 

“ But  not  to  go  himself,”  Lord  Chevronel  noted  with 
his  neat  little  smile. 

“ The  Byrnes,”  Eustace  explained,  “ are  Roman 
Catholics.” 

“ But  such  a nice  boy,”  dear  Mamma  pleaded  in 
mitigation  of  sentence.  “You’d  never  think  he  was; 
though  certainly  he  crosses  himself.  But  that,  of 
course,  is  merely  habit.” 

Sylvia  looked  as  if  she  thought  it  a habit  one  should 
break  oneself  of.  And,  to  change  the  subject,  perhaps, 
said — 

“ We  must  go  to  church,  too.  But  not  for  a long 
time  yet.” 

When  the  time  came  Mr.  Monk  decided  that  he  also 
must  go  to  church — and  so  did  Lord  Chevronel;  I 
wished  Mr.  de  Braose  would  decide  that  he  had  to 
return  to  Monkspark,  as  I thought  I had  poulticed  him 
enough.  But  he  could  not  leave  his  guests,  and  so  all 
six  of  us  went  to  church.  Sylvia  was  not  sorry  that 
the  two  young  men  from  Monkspark  were  added  to 
our  party,  for  it  made  Mr,  Monk’s  presence  with  us 
less  striking. 


CHAPTER  XXII 


The  evening  service  was  held  in  the  huge  choir  of  the 
Priory  Church,  which  was  almost  cut  off  from  the  nave 
by  a high  screen  on  the  top  of  which  was  the  organ. 
There  was  a pulpit  in  the  choir  as  well  as  the  bigger 
one  down  in  the  nave,  and  the  screen  of  carved  oak, 
nearly  black,  matched  the  stalls  that  ran  round  three 
sides  of  the  chancel.  Six  of  these  stalls,  facing  the 
altar,  formed  part  of  the  screen  itself.  Next  the  door, 
on  the  left  as  you  entered,  sat  the  Vicar  in  what  had 
been  the  Prior’s  place,  next  him  was  Mrs.  Hawthorn, 
and,  beyond  her,  their  daughter.  To  the  right  of  the 
entrance  sat  the  Warden,  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  and  the 
curate. 

We  sat  in  similar  stalls  on  the  same  level,  and  near 
us  were  the  Baroness,  the  Stephen  Rumbles,  and  Mr. 
Bloom  : all  the  other  upper  stalls,  on  that  side  and 
opposite,  were  occupied  by  other  Monksbridgers  of 
credit  and  renown. 

The  Masters  of  Abbot’s  School  and  the  Cardinal’s 
or  gown-boys  sat  under  us  in  lower  stalls,  and  below 
them  the  rest  of  the  schoolboys,  and  the  men  singers 
of  the  choir. 

In  the  open  space  between  the  two  high  rows  of 
seats  was  a tomb,  enclosed  under  a canopy  with  arched 
sides  filled  with  strong  but  beautiful  wrought-iron  work, 
through  which  one  could  see  the  recumbent  figure 
within.  It  was  that  of  Cardinal  de  Belesme,  who,  as 
Abbot  of  Monksbridge,  had  founded  the  neighbouring 

147 


MONKSBRIDGE 


148 


[CH.  XXII 


school;  and  it  represented  him  as  if  lying  in  state  in 
his  red  robes  and  hat. 

It  was  the  twentieth  day  of  the  month  (as  the  Vicar 
announced,  at  the  beginning  of  the  psalms,  in  that 
odd  voice  which  I was  always  glad  he  reserved  for 
sacred  occasions),  and  presently  they  were  singing  that 
lovely  poem  of  David’s  all  about  the  wild  creatures 
God  has  made. 

The  singing  at  the  Priory  Church  was  quite  beauti- 
ful, and,  from  the  first  moment  I heard  it,  I always 
began  to  have  that  queer  feeling  about  my  chest  as 
if  I had  been  coming  down  in  a swing.  You  heard  it 
before  the  choir  appeared  at  all,  for  they  sang  some- 
thing in  the  vestry,  away  in  the  south  transept,  and  the 
sound  seemed  unearthly  as  it  came  through  that  open 
door  far  off.  Then  it  sank  into  silence  and  you  only 
heard  the  measured  cadence  of  their  footfalls  as  the 
procession  passed  out  into  the  transept,  across  it,  along 
the  chancel-aisle,  and  so  into  the  chancel.  The  town- 
boys  came  first,  then  the  red  scholars,  then  the  men, 
and  the  clergy  after  them,  with  the  Vicar  last  of  all : 
in  front  of  him  walked  his  verger,  in  a dark  blue  vel- 
vet gown,  carrying  the  Lily  Verge — a rod  of  antique 
silver  tipped  with  the  Virgin’s  flower,  which  in  old 
days  had  been  borne  before  the  Prior. 

Perkin’s  place  was  on  the  opposite  side  from  where 
we  sat,  a little  nearer  the  altar,  and  I could  see  him 
very  well.  I loved  to  look  at  him  in  church.  His 
merry,  kindly  face  was  as  kind  as  ever,  but  sobered 
a little,  and  a different  light  from  that  of  mere  good 
nature  beautified  it.  His  eyes  held  a wonderful  quiet- 
ness and  simplicity;  and  his  reverence,  in  so  light- 
hearted a boy,  seemed  to  me,  somehow,  touching.  He 


MONKSBRIDGE 


149 


CH.  XXIl] 

was  so  absolutely  himself,  and  yet  another  self  of  his 
was  half  revealed  there,  as  if  the  Perkin  of  our  home- 
life,  of  our  chaffing,  and  little  friendly  skirmishes, 
were  not  all  of  him.  He  had  no  conventional  tricks 
or  gestures  of  piety:  he  moved  and  sat  still  as  natu- 
rally as  at  home,  but  his  face  had  a different  meaning 
as  though  it  were  a clear  screen  that  reverently  hid 
something  poignant  and  great.  Some  of  the  lads, 
very  few,  were  careless  and  not  reverent;  most  had 
a decent  solemnity  and  restraint;  none  were  like 
Perkin. 

I loved  to  look  at  him,  and  yet  I felt  half  ashamed 
to  watch  him — even  if  he  were  not  to  catch  me:  it 
seemed  mean,  as  if  one  were  eavesdropping — over- 
hearing something  intended  for  other  ears.  Perkin 
was  rather  tall  now,  and  very  manly ; it  was  what  you 
noticed  more  than  his  good  looks;  still  he  was  not 
young-mannish;  just  a handsome,  strong  boy,  full  of 
vigour  and  life.  It  is  odd  that,  pausing  to  think  of 
him  there,  on  that  Sunday  evening,  it  is  the  memory  of 
his  laugh,  though  he  certainly  was  not  laughing  then, 
that  seems  to  echo  most  clearly  from  those  far-away 
days — the  exquisite  laugh  that  belonged  to  out-of- 
doors  and  home.  No  nasty  boy  could  laugh  as  he  did. 
It  came  up  from  his  clean,  merry  heart.  . . . Eh, 
dear!  I’m  an  old  woman  now,  and  grown  garrulous. 
I must  get  back  to  my  story — such  as  it  is.  Well, 
they  began  that  perfect  psalm;  and  I felt  as  I always 
felt  when  I heard  it — a strange  wistful  delight,  as  if 
a cold  pulse  were  hitting  against  my  ribs.  Of  course  I 
listened  for  Perkin’s  voice,  and  tried  to  separate  it 
from  the  rest;  but  the  boys  sang  too  well  for  that — 
it  was  only  in  an  anthem,  when  there  were  solos,  that 


150  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxii 

any  single  voice  stood  out  from  the  others.  I never 
could  understand  why  it  was  so  beautiful;  much  more 
beautiful  than  any  famous  music  I heard  afterwards 
in  operas  or  oratorios  in  London.  That  later  music 
often  astonished  my  mind,  but  never  gripped  my  heart ; 
it  appealed  to  a sense  of  art  that  I haven’t  got,  but 
made  no  cry  to  myself ; besides,  I was  a girl  in  those 
first  days  at  Monksbridge  and  knew  very  little — only 
home  and  Peterkin. 

After  the  psalm,  during  the  lesson,  he  sat  at  first 
sideways  in  his  stall,  facing  towards  us;  but,  after  a 
little  smile  at  me,  I saw  his  eyes  fall  on  the  Cardi- 
nal’s tomb,  and  they  had  a grave  musing  in  them.  Mr. 
Monk  was  looking  at  Sylvia  (also  sideways).  Pres- 
ently Perkin  shifted  himself  in  his  seat,  and  he  was 
looking  towards  the  huge  white  stone  screen  behind 
the  altar.  In  the  middle  was  a carved  figure  of  Christ 
upon  His  cross,  with  arms  outstretched,  flat  and 
straight.  A pious  soldier  of  Cromwell’s  had  broken 
His  legs,  as  that  other  pious  soldier  had  once  thought 
to  do  and  had  forborne.  The  whole  figure  was  bat- 
tered. Ever  so  many  figures  filled  niches  in  the  screen, 
and  the  lower  ones  had  been  defaced,  but  hurriedly; 
those  high  up  were  intact,  and  among  them  was  one 
of  the  English  Pope,  Adrian  IV.,  one  of  St.  Thomas 
of  Canterbury,  one  of  the  Cardinal  who  helped  the 
Barons  at  Runnymede,  and  one  of  St.  Edward  the 
Confessor,  with  a weeny  Westminster  Abbey  in  his 
hand.  I could  just  see  Perkin’s  face;  and  it  had  the 
same  doubtful,  wondering  expression  on  it  that  I had 
noticed  there  while  he  sat  looking  at  the  tomb  of  Car- 
dinal de  Belesme. 

When  the  anthem  came  he  was  quite  different.  It 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXIl] 


151 


was  an  odd  one,  taken  from  Ezekiel,  and  a fat  young 
man,  with  a high  coppery  voice,  began  with  a recitative 
in  which  he  sang  how  God  carried  the  prophet  into  the 
Valley  of  Dry  Bones.  “ And,  lo,”  he  ended,  “ they 
were  very  dry.” 

Then  another  man,  in  a voice  lower  and  plainer, 
sang,  with  a fine  quietness  and  singular  expression 
of  doubt,  “ Son  of  man,  can  these  dry  bones  live  ? ” 

It  was  Perkin’s  voice  that  replied,  “ O Lord  God, 
Thou  knowest ! ” 

I never  felt  till  then,  fully,  how  exquisite  my  brother’s 
alto  was. 

It  had  no  horrible  tremolo  in  it,  but  it  seemed  to 
hit  my  heart  and  shake  it.  Lord  Chevronel  looked 
across  with  a quick  air  of  surprise,  and  I could  see  that 
in  a moment  he  no  longer  was  able  to  think  of  Sylvia’s 
brother  as  a superfluous  schoolboy.  Mr.  Monk  was  also 
listening  with  all  his  eyes.  Only  Sylvia  was  unmoved 
by  any  higher  emotion  than  a ladylike  gratification. 

“ O Lord  God,  Thou  knowest.”  And  high,  high  up 
among  the  arches,  and  in  the  shadowy  roof,  echoed  that 
patient,  poignant  cry. 

There  was  barely  a pause  before  the  recitative  took 
up  the  word,  but  somehow  it  seemed  intense,  a suspense 
that  mere  brevity  of  duration  could  not  deprive  of  its 
acuteness. 

“ Again  He  said  to  me,”  came  the  recitative, 
“ Prophesy  upon  these  bones,  and  say  unto  them,  O 
ye  dry  bones,  hear  the  word  of  the  Lord.  Thus  saith 
the  Lord  God  unto  these  bones:  Behold,  I will  cause 
breath  to  enter  into  you,  and  ye  shall  live.  And  I will 
lay  sinews  upon  you,  and  I will  bring  up  flesh  upon 
you,  and  cover  you  with  skin,  and  put  breath  in  you, 


MONKSBRIDGE 


152 


[CH.  XXII 


and  ye  shall  live;  and  ye  shall  know  that  I am  the 
Lord.” 

And  now  again  my  brother’s  voice  arose,  clear,  like 
a silver  bell  or  trumpet — 

“ So  I prophesied  as  I was  commanded;  and  as  I 
prophesied,  there  was  a noise,  and  behold  a shaking, 
and  the  bones  came  together,  bone  to  his  bone.  And 
when  I beheld,  lo,  the  sinews  and  the  flesh  came  up 
upon  them,  and  the  skin  covered  them  above.”  All 
this  was  upon  but  one  or  two  high  notes,  sustained 
without  the  least  shake  or  tremble;  then  with  almost 
a sudden  drop,  like  a gasp,  came  the  last  words — “ But 
there  was  no  breath  in  them.” 

Another  incalculably  brief  but  intense  pause,  and 
it  was  Perkin  still  who  sang  on — 

“ Then  said  He  to  me,  Prophesy  unto  the  wind,  son 
of  man,  and  say  to  the  wind,  thus  said  the  Lord  God : 
Come  from  the  Four  Winds , O breath,  and  breathe 
upon  these  slain  that  they  may  live.” 

In  that  last  phrase  the  boy’s  voice  was  given,  by  the 
music,  a larger  play,  and  it  rose  and  swayed  and  fell, 
and  rose  again,  like  a cool  breath  of  summer  gale  on 
a burning  day.  When  he  ceased,  many  other  voices 
took  up  what  he  had  sung,  and  repeated  it : “ Come 
from  the  Four  Winds,  O breath,  and  breathe  upon  these 
slain  that  they  may  live.”  And  Perkin’s  part  in  that 
night’s  anthem  was  finished.  It  was  the  first  man, 
with  the  coppery  voice,  hard  and  cold  and  clear,  who 
went  on : “ And  the  breath  came  into  them,  and  they 
lived,  and  stood  up  upon  their  feet,  an  exceeding  great 
army.”  And  this  the  whole  choir  repeated. 

Outside  the  Priory  door,  when  church  was  over, 
Mr.  Monk  said  to  Sylvia — 


ch.  xxii]  MONKSBRIDGE  153 

“ You  never  told  us  of  your  brother’s  singing — he  is 
wonderful.” 

This  was  one  of  the  special  occasions  when  I really 
liked  Mr.  Monk.  We  were  destined  to  be  brother  and 
sister-in-law,  and  there  was  a sort  of  aloof  intimacy 
between  us  in  time,  but  we  were  seldom  very  sympa- 
thetic. He  never  could  regard  me  as  belonging  to  the 
same  class  with  Sylvia,  and,  as  I was  her  sister,  he  felt 
it  must  be  my  fault.  He  was  more  really  ambitious 
than  she  was,  and  it  slightly  annoyed  him  that  I never 
did  anything  for  our  family.  For  my  part  I liked  his 
parents  better  than  I liked  him,  and  could  never  see 
why  my  sister’s  husband  should  interfere  with  me — or 
Perkin.  But  I liked  him  now,  when  he  said  that  to 
Sylvia. 

“ He  was  in  better  voice  to-night  than  I ever  heard 
him,”  she  answered,  with  cool  satisfaction.  “ It  is  the 
first  time  I have  heard  him  take  a solo.” 

In  better  voice!  I shot  a quick  glance  at  her  under 
the  flickering  lamp;  Lord  Chevronel  intercepted  it. 
Strange  to  say,  he  understood,  and  I could  see  that  he 
felt  as  I did;  it  was  no  question  of  being  in  better  voice. 
For  some  reason,  though  what  it  was  I did  not  know 
then,  my  brother  had  been  strongly  moved  by  what  he 
had  had  to  sing. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


I did  not  know  then,  but  I knew  soon,  for  the  very 
next  day  I saw  Perkin  alone  and  began  to  talk  of  the 
anthem.  He  seemed  shy  about  it,  as  if  he  would 
rather  not  have  talked  about  it.  But  I (ever  tactful) 
persisted;  and  he  answered  me  quite  simply. 

“ Well,”  he  said,  “ I was  in  a bad  humour  when  I 
went  to  church.  I don’t  care  for  all  our  grand  friends 
much;  and,  when  Hubs  and  I came  into  the  drawing- 
room, Sylvia  made  it  very  plain  she  didn’t  care  for  my 
friend,  who  isn’t  grand  at  all.  Of  course  I wouldn’t 
bring  him  in  to  tea  to  be  tolerated  or  ignored;  but  I 
had  brought  him  to  tea,  and  he  knew  it  very  well.  So 
when  we  went  off  to  his  house  I felt  mean  and  savage. 
Don’t  you  think  he’s  quite  as  good  a gentleman  as  Mr. 
Monk,  or  Lord  Chevronel,  or  Eustace  de  Braose  ? ” 

“ Of  course,  Perkin.” 

“ So  do  I.  And  so  he  is.  But  Sylvia  would  have 
been  lofty  and  ‘gracious’:  I couldn’t  stand  that;  so 
off  we  went.  Then  I had  to  go  to  church:  and  of 

course  he  couldn’t  come ” 

“But,  Perkin,  that’s  his  fault,  if  anybody’s;  Sylvia 
wouldn’t  mind  his  coming  to  church  with  you — only  he 
won’t  because  he’s  a Roman  Catholic.” 

“ I know  that.  I wasn’t  thinking  any  more  of 
Sylvia.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  her.  But  it  seemed 
such  a shame — the  whole  thing.  Here  am  I receiving 
the  education  Cardinal  de  Belesme  left  the  money  to 
pay  for — and  Hubert,  who  belongs  to  his  church,  not 

154 


MONKSBRIDGE 


155 


CH.  XXIIl] 

eligible  to  receive  it,  because  he  does  belong  to  the 
Cardinal’s  church.  I’ve  taken  the  Cardinal’s  Prize,  and 
Hubert  could  have  gained  it,  twice  as  well  as  I could — 
only  he’s  a Catholic,  like  the  Founder,  so  he  may  not. 
I am  in  for  the  college  scholarship — and  I shall  win  it — 
but  Hubert  could  win  it  better  than  I can;  only  he 
must  not,  because  he  belongs  to  the  same  religion  as 
the  Cardinal  who  founded  it.  The  subjects  the  Founder 
laid  down  for  the  candidates  to  pass  in  were  these: 
there  were  to  be  four  theses — on  the  Doctrine  of  Trans- 
substantiation; on  the  Immaculate  Conception  of  God’s 
Mother;  on  the  Primacy  of  Peter;  on  Purgatory.  Of 
course  that  is  all  changed.  Since  the  Reformation  the 
candidates  have  to  pass  in  Classics,  Mathematics, 
History,  and  Astronomy;  even  in  those  Hubert  could 
do  better  than  I can : because  he  could  really  pass  in 
the  subjects  laid  down  by  the  Founder,  and  believes 
about  them  what  the  Founder  believed,  he  is  not 
eligible!  I thought  of  it  all,  as  I walked  back  to 
college,  and  while  we  were  putting  on  our  surplices  in 
the  vestry.  I was  thinking  of  it  still  during  the  first 
lesson,  and  at  last  I couldn’t  stand  looking  at  the 
Cardinal’s  tomb,  and  thinking  of  it:  there  he  lies,  I 
mean  his  alabaster  portrait,  just  as  if  he  were  lying  in 
state,  a dead  Cardinal,  in  Cardinal’s  dress;  the  man 
who  founded  our  school  and  meant  it  to  be  for  those 
who  belong  to  the  religion  that  has  Cardinals — and 
none  of  them  may  get  any  benefit  from  it.  We  can, 
because  we  belong  to  a different  religion  that  won’t 
hear  of  the  things  he  believed  and  wanted  to  have 
taught  for  ever.  His  teachers  were  to  be  priests,  and 
to  say  Masses  for  ever  for  his  soul,  and  the  souls  of  all 
the  abbots  and  monks  of  Marybridge — and  no  one  who 


MONKSBRIDGE 


156 


[CH.  XXIII 


would  or  could  say  Masses  for  the  dead  may  teach  in 
his  school.  No  one  who  believes  what  the  abbot 
believed  who  founded  the  Priory  Church  may  preach 
in  it,  or  sing  in  it,  or  baptize  in  it,  or  give  Holy  Com- 
munion in  it.  So  I couldn’t  stand  thinking  of  it  all, 
and  looking  at  the  Cardinal’s  tomb.  It  seemed  such  a 
theft,  and  such  a cheat — and  I am  receiving  the  stolen 
goods.  So  I turned  my  back  to  the  Cardinal  and 
looked  at  the  altar,  and  there  was  the  same  thing  to 
be  seen.  Adrian  IV.,  who  was  a monk  and  an  abbot,  a 
Cardinal,  and  then  a Pope:  he  also  taught  just  what 
Cardinal  de  Belesme  taught.  And  St.  Thomas  of 
Canterbury:  and  St.  Augustine  (whom  a Pope  sent 
here)  : and  all  of  them — regular  Roman  Catholics,  like 
Hubert.  And  there  was  the  big,  battered  Crucifix : the 
stone  portrait  of  Jesus  Christ — the  Roman  Catholics 
don’t  smash  His  statues  to  show  their  reverence  for 
Him.  The  whole  Priory  is  a Roman  Catholic  building, 
built  for  Mass  and  for  singing  the  Office  the  Roman 
Catholics  sing  still — but  they  mustn’t  use  it,  because 
they  would  use  it  for  the  things  it  was  meant  for : and 
it  is  ours  because  we  don’t  believe  in  those  things.” 

“ But,  Perkin,  when  it  came  to  the  anthem  you 
weren’t  in  a bad  humour  ? ” 

“ You  can’t  think  of  two  things  at  once — not  exactly. 
And  I had  to  think  of  what  I had  to  sing.  But  it  joined 
on.  It  seemed  to  me  that  all  the  old  Cathedrals,  and 
Abbeys,  and  priories,  and  parish  churches,  up  and  down 
England,  were  the  Valley  of  Dry  Bones.  They  had 
been  alive  once.  And  our  friends  came  along  and  killed 
them,  and  made  dry  bones  of  them.  Could  anything 
make  them  come  to  life  again?  Can  anything?” 
And,  as  he  said  this,  I heard  the  echo  of  his  voice, 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXIIl] 


157 


high  up  among  the  arches;  that  patient,  poignant  cry 
“ O Lord  God,  Thou  knowest.” 

I really  could  not  say  anything:  because  I hardly 
knew  what  he  meant,  and  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  it 
was  something  none  of  us  would  like.  Nor  did  he  say 
anything  more  for  a little  while,  but  walked  quickly  up 
and  down  the  room  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
red  gown  flung  off  and  thrown  across  a chair. 

Presently  he  went  on.  “ You  see,  the  dry  bones  did 
come  to  life  before.  Nobody  knows  exactly  when  or 
how  Christianity  came  here : perhaps  it  was  brought 
from  Rome,  from  the  very  house  where  St.  Paul  lodged 
with  the  Senator  Pudens  and  his  wife  Claudia,  while  he 
and  St.  Peter  were  still  alive,  or  soon  after  St.  Paul 
writes  about  Pudens  and  Claudia  to  St.  Timothy;  and 
the  Christian  tradition  makes  Claudia,  the  wife  of 
Cornelius  Pudens,  the  daughter  of  a British  prince  or 
king.  And  the  heathen  poet  Martial  in  one  place  men- 
tions that  the  noble  Roman  Pudens  married  Claudia, 
a foreign  lady : in  another  place  he  says  she  was  a 
Briton.  Tacitus,  a heathen  like  Martial,  tells  of  a Brit- 
ish King,  called  Cogidunus,  in  the  Emperor  Claudius’ 
reign,  who  was  rewarded  for  faithfulness  to  Rome  by 
the  grant  of  certain  lands,  and  it  is  known  now  that 
King  Cogidunus  added  the  Emperor’s  names  to  his 
own,  and  called  himself  on  his  coins  Tiberius  Claudius 
Cogidunus.  His  daughter  would  be  called  Claudia,  in 
Roman  fashion : and  I believe  that  the  Claudia  whom 
the  Christians  said  was  daughter  of  a British  King  was 
daughter  of  Cogidunus:  we  know  she  was  wife  of 
Pudens  and  a Christian,  well  known  to  St.  Paul,  and 
she  must  have  been  well  known  to  St.  Peter  too,  for  it 
was  in  her  house  that  he  said  Mass,  using  the  altar  part 


MONKSBRIDGE 


158 


[CH.  XXIII 


of  which  is  still  there,  in  the  oratory  that  formed  part 
of  the  house  of  Pudens.  The  authority  King  Cogidunus 
had  from  Claudius  continued  in  his  family,  and  his 
descendant  King  Lucius  was,  it  seems,  a Christian ; as 
if  Claudia  had  brought  or  sent  the  faith  to  her  family. 
If  Lucius  was  not  a baptized  Christian,  he  was  a 
Christian  in  sympathy,  for  he  sent  a letter  to  Pope 
Eleutherius  in  the  year  156  by  the  hands  of  two  men, 
whom  some  call  Fagan  and  Dervan,  praying  to  be  made 
Christian  by  an  act  of  his  authority.  And  the  Pope 
ordained  the  King’s  messengers,  and  sent  them  back 
to  preach  to  the  Britons,  and  establish  the  Church  here 
as  it  was  in  the  other  countries:  and  they  did  it,  so 
that  in  Pope  Sylvester’s  time,  British  Bishops  of  York, 
London  and  Lincoln  took  part  in  his  Council  of  Arles. 
So  you  see,  Mags,  that  the  old  dry  bones  of  the  heathen 
temples  here  were  given  life,  and  the  life  came  from 
Rome.” 

I rubbed  my  nose  to  express  a suspension  of  judg- 
ment, and  Perkin  dashed  on. 

“ And  the  British  Church  flourished,  like  the  other 
churches  abroad;  and  was  evidently  just  like  them, 
joining  in  their  Councils  and  all  that:  only  the  Church 
here  was  left  more  in  peace,  because  the  heathen 
emperors  were  farther  off,  and  their  power  was  shaky 
here.  But  persecution  came  all  right  under  Diocletian ; 
and  then  came  the  Saxons,  and  Angles,  and  the  rest  of 
them;  and  the  Britons  and  their  Christianity  were  driven 
west  into  the  hills,  into  Wales  and  into  Cornwall,  and 
England  began — and  was  heathen,  and  there  were  dry 
bones  again,  scorched  bones,  all  that  the  heathen  left 
of  the  British  churches.  But  they  were  to  live  again : the 
Benedictine  monk.  Pope  Gregory,  sent  the  Benedictine 


ch.  xxiii]  MONKSBRIDGE  159 

monk  St.  Augustine,  and  Christianity,  that  came  from 
Rome  to  the  Britons,  came  again  from  Rome  to  the 
English.  For  a thousand  years  the  Catholic  Church 
went  on,  building  all  our  cathedrals,  our  old  parish 
churches,  and  abbeys  and  priories — like  ours  here. 
That’s  why  in  the  altar-screen  there  is  the  statue  of  St. 
Eleutherius,  and  the  statue  of  St.  Gregory  the  Great, 
and  St.  Augustine’s,  and  all  the  rest  of  them.  It  was 
thinking  of  all  this  that  first  made  me  mad  to  think 
Hubert’s  religion  can  have  no  share  in  the  Cardinal’s 
school,  or  in  the  priory  the  Benedictine  monks  built, 
and  the  Cardinal  rebuilt  ...  and  ” — he  paused  a mo- 
ment, and  ended  more  hurriedly — “ and  I was  think- 
ing of  all  this  when  I had  to  sing  ‘ O Lord  God,  Thou 
knowest  ’ — whether  these  dry  bones  can  live  again. 
They’re  dry  enough,  anyway.” 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


Of  course  all  this  talk  of  Perkin’s  gave  me  something 
to  think  of;  though  I do  not  believe  I even  suspected 
then  what  it  was  to  lead  to,  or  that  it  would  lead  to 
anything  in  particular.  He  always  said  out,  to  me, 
any  special  thing  he  had  in  his  mind,  and  in  general 
nothing  came  of  it.  Sometimes  he  talked  like  a 
violent  radical,  and  then  he  would  rave  against  the 
rebels  who  had  cut  off  Charles  I.’s  head,  or  the  revolu- 
tionists who  killed  Louis  XVI.  and  his  queen,  and 
multitudes  of  others,  all  in  the  name  of  liberty  and 
brotherhood.  Whatever  it  was  he  was  eager,  burning, 
and  unrestrained.  He  had  a perfect  passion  for  justice, 
and  everything  he  thought  unjust  made  him  furious. 
But,  though  I supposed  this  new  vehemence  would 
be  like  all  his  other  vehemence,  still  I could  not  help 
wondering,  rather  grimly,  what  the  Warden  would 
think  if  he  knew  what  Perkin’s  “ historical  bias  ” (to 
borrow  a metaphor  of  the  bowling  green)  had  led  him 
to.  Perkin  was  quite  capable  of  telling  him.  I could 
only  hope  he  wouldn’t — and  picture  the  Doctor’s  face, 
and  Mr.  Hawthorn’s,  if  my  brother  should  scold  them 
for  keeping  Roman  Catholics  out  of  the  Cardinal’s 
school  in  the  Benedictines’  priory.  I had,  however, 
other  things  to  think  of;  anything  really  concerning 
Perkin  interested  me  more  than  matters  that  concerned 
any  one  else;  but  these  ideas  of  his  would  probably 
have  no  important  consequences,  whereas  Sylvia’s  con- 
cerns were  of  family  importance. 

160 


MONKSBRIDGE 


161 


CH.  XXIV] 

“ My  dear,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  when  I met  her,  a 
few  days  after  that  Sunday  evening  (which  in  my  own 
mind  I always  call  the  Dry  Bones  Sunday)  in  her  Bath- 
chair,  “ I wish  you  would  come  to  tea  to-day;  it’s  not 
a party,  there’ll  be  no  one  else.  But  this  change  of 
the  season  always  tries  me,  and  I’m  not  quite  so  well. 
Do  come  and  cheer  me.” 

She  invited  me  with  such  guileless  cordiality  that  I 
said  at  once  I would  go.  And,  about  four  o’clock, 
I walked  off  to  English  Gate.  She  greeted  me  with 
special  warmth,  and  there  was  a fire,  which  made  her 
grim  and  gaunt  drawing-room  look  a warmer  welcome 
too.  For  my  part  I thought  that  room  slightly  too 
medieval  for  mere  comfort. 

“ I was  so  afraid,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  settling  me 
into  the  best  chair,  “ that  Mrs.  Auberon  would  not  be 
able  to  spare  you.” 

“Oh,  Mamma  and  Sylvia  are  at  Llanthamy;  Mr. 
Monk  fetched  them  before  luncheon,  and  they  won’t  be 
back  till  dressing-time.” 

“ Ah ! at  Llanthamy  Castle ! ” said  Miss  Belvoir, 
pretending  to  poke  the  fire.  “ My  dear,  are  we  to 
congratulate  you  ? From  what  I hear  I think  I may 
congratulate  you.” 

“ On  what  ? ” I asked  with  guilty  innocence. 

Then  Miss  Belvoir  put  down  the  poker  and  turned 
round — that  she  might  see  my  face,  though  of  course  it 
enabled  me  to  see  hers.  And  I felt  sure  I knew  why 
she  had  invited  me  so  pressingly  to  tea,  and  why  she 
had  asked  no  one  else.  When  I said  “ On  what?  ” she 
glanced  at  me  with  a reproachful  air,  and  looked 
particularly  like  a male  Belvoir;  her  frigidity  was  quite 
gentlemanly. 


162 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXIV 

“ I see,”  she  observed,  as  if  she  were  seated  on  the 
jutting  promontory  of  an  iceberg,  and  looking  down  on 
me,  tittupping  up  and  down  in  a cock-boat  without 
any  oars,  “ that  I was — er — precipitate.”  And  she  gave 
a chemical  sort  of  sound  to  her  words.  “ We  were, 
evidently,  misinformed — Miss  Auberon  is  not  engaged 
to  Mr.  Monk.” 

I am  sorry  to  be  driven  to  so  many  metaphors,  but 
the  effect  of  her  last  sentence  I felt  to  be  thumb- 
screwy. 

“ But,”  I said  feebly,  “ who  told  you  she  was  engaged 
to  him?  ” 

“No,  my  dear!  The  report  being  without  founda- 
tion, it  is  useless  to  trace  it  to  its  source.  I shall 
contradict  it.” 

When  I saw  how  great  her  firmness  and  decision 
were  I wondered  how  the  Belvoir  estates  could  belong 
to  any  one  else,  with  so  determined  a male  Belvoir 
extant  to  support  her  claim. 

“ I shall  contradict  it,”  she  added  inexorably.  “ I 
need  not  mention  on  what  authority;  but  I shall 
contradict  it.” 

She  evidently  meant  my  authority,  and  I succumbed 
to  the  thumbscrew. 

“ But,  Miss  Belvoir,  I don’t  see  why  you  should 

contradict  it ” I was  beginning,  when  she  tripped 

me  up. 

“ Because  I may  have  helped  to  spread  the  false 
report — it  was  told  me  as  a certain  thing;  and  after 
seeing  him  with  your  sister  in  church  on  Sunday  evening 
I may  have  given  currency  to  the  confounded  rumour.” 

“Oh!”  I cried,  with  timorous  pleasantry,  “at 
church!  There  were  three  gentlemen  at  church  with 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXIV] 


163 


us;  they  couldn’t  all  be  supposed  to  have  come  because 
they  were  engaged  to  Sylvia.” 

“ No,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  with  unsmiling  dignity; 
“ but  there  were  three  ladies  also.” 

Then  I laughed.  “ And  I suppose  Lord  Chevronel 
is  going  to  marry  Mamma,  and  I am  going  to  marry 
Eustace  de  Braose ! ” I suggested,  aiming  at  a reductio 
ad  absurdum. 

Miss  Belvoir  smiled  tightly,  and  shook  her  head, 
but  not  as  if  disclaiming  the  absurdity  of  the  notion.  I 
became  quite  desperate. 

“ The  truth  is,”  I blurted  out,  “ I really  can’t  tell 
you  if  Sylvia  is  engaged  or  not.” 

Then  Miss  Belvoir  relaxed  a little.  “ You  mean,” 
she  said,  less  austerely,  “ that  you  are  not  at  liberty  to 
tell — pray  forgive  my — my  interest  in  your  fam- 
ily  ” 

“ I mean  that  I don’t  know.” 

Miss  Belvoir  almost  stared,  but  relaxed  a little  more. 

“ Yes.  No;  I don’t  know.  All  the  same  I wouldn’t 
contradict  it,  if  I were  you,”  I mumbled. 

“ You  wouldn’t?  ” 

And  now  Miss  Belvoir  relaxed  a good  deal,  and 
moved  her  chair  a trifle  nearer,  with  a glance  at  the 
window  as  if  she  were  merely  edging  out  of  a draught. 

“ No,”  I said,  making  a clean  breast  of  it.  “ I don’t 
see  any  use  in  contradicting  it.  For  though  nothing 
was  settled  when  last  my  sister  spoke  of  it,  I believe  it 
will  be  settled.  Perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  say  nothing 
either  way,  since  I may  be  wrong.” 

“ My  dear,  I will  hold  my  tongue.”  And  I saw  she 
would;  while  resenting  being  kept  in  the  dark  herself 
she  had  no  objection  to  Monksbridge  at  large  remaining 


MONKSBRIDGE 


164 


[CH.  XXIV 


without  authentic  information.  “It  is  a great  mar- 
riage,” she  went  on  thoughtfully,  with  a pensive  inter- 
est. “ But  not  at  all  above  what  your  sister  is  entitled 
to.  With  her  beauty  (of  course  you  resemble  her,  my 
dear,  but  her  beauty  is  quite  special) ” 

“ We’re  not  in  the  least  alike ! ” I protested. 

“ Oh,  there’s  a family  resemblance.  But  Miss 
Auberon’s  beauty  is  of  a rare  quality — quite.  And 
with  her  great  distinction  and  talents,  and  her  con- 
sciousness of  her  claims,  and  the  company  she  sees — 
for  you  mix  in  very  high  company  since  you  came  into 
our  neighbourhood  ” (and  here  Miss  Belvoir’s  relaxa- 
tion was  slightly  curbed),  “ I understand  she  is  going 
to  stay  at  the  Duke’s,  and  also  at  Lord  Closeborough’s, 
where  she  is  pretty  sure  to  meet  the  Marquess — Lord 
Severn  is  constantly  there,  and  very  likely  the  Duke  of 
Menevia,  and  Lord  Wrekin;  probably,  if  she  were  not 
already  engaged,  some  even  more  brilliant  alliance 
might  offer.” 

I winced  and  felt  myself  reddening  while  she  talked 
of  our  fine  company  “ since  we  came  into  her  neigh- 
bourhood.” I could  picture  Perkin’s  angry  annoyance 
if  he  had  heard  her.  But  she  relaxed  again  and  seemed 
half  pleased  as  she  said,  “ Mind : it  is  a great  mar- 
riage— but  I think  Mr.  Monk  is  a wise  man,  and  lucky. 
He  will  have  the  loveliest  wife  in  the  two  counties — in 
the  Principality  I should  say:  and  the  next  Lady 
Monksbridge  will  be  all  that  his  family  needs — dis- 
tinguished, and  a great  Social  Leader.  Poor  dear 
Lady  Monksbridge — that  now  is — no  one  could  call 
her  distinguished,  or  a social  anybody.” 

Then  tea  was  brought  in,  and  we  had  it  there  in  the 
drawing-room,  instead  of  having  to  go  off  to  the  guard- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXIV] 


165 


room — where,  perhaps,  there  was  not  another  fire. 
And  over  our  muffin  we  waxed  quite  tender. 

“ They’re  the  first  of  the  season,”  said  Miss  Belvoir, 
“ I never  begin  them  before  fires.  Yes,  it’s  a great 
marriage;  and  every  marriage  among  one’s  own  little 
circle  is — well,  it  stirs  up  one’s — not  exactly  memories, 
for  I never  actually  was  married.”  And  she  sighed  as 
she  glanced  covertly  at  the  left  corner  of  the  chimney- 
piece.  The  kettle-holder,  embroidered  in  beads,  the 
Belvoir  arms  on  a “ filoselle  ” ground,  hung  there;  and 
over  it  a miniature  in  a flat,  black  frame.  I knew  it 
represented  a gentleman,  with  peepy  eyes,  like 
Henry  VIII. ’s,  and  a pink  cheek  and  a half,  and  a 
blue-grey  chin,  and  hair  that  expressed  a surmise  less 
wild  than  that  of  Cortes,  though  I should  say  the 
gentleman  was  also  stout. 

“ We  all  grow  old  in  time,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  a 
little  shiny  about  the  mouth  (but  that  was  muffin)  and 
perhaps  about  the  eyes  (and  that  wasn’t). 

“ Oh  yes,  indeed,”  I murmured,  with  so  elderly  an 
air  of  acquiescence  that  it  didn’t  strike  Miss  Belvoir  as 
a fault  in  tact. 

“ But  I was  giddy  once,”  she  went  on,  absent- 
mindedly,  salting  her  muffin,  out  of  a little  silver  acorn. 
And  it  made  me  giddy  to  hear  her  say  so. 

“ Are  you  sure  ? ” I was  going  to  protest,  but  saved 
myself,  and  sighed  into  my  cup  instead — with  another 
glance  at  Henry  VIII. — or  Cortes,  so  to  speak. 

“ Yes,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  “ that  is  he.”  I had 
guessed  as  much,  but  didn’t  say  so. 

“Was  it  like  him?”  I enquired,  now  openly  re- 
garding the  portrait. 

“ It  never  did  justice  to  his  commanding  expression.” 


i66 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXIV 


(That  I could  believe.)  “ He  might  have  been  almost 
anything  ” — (that  also  seemed  possible) — “ a leader  of 
men”  (that,  the  miniaturist  had,  I thought,  failed  to 
convey). 

I merely  sighed,  because  Miss  Belvoir  sighed,  while 
she  put  a little  cream  and  a good  deal  of  milk  into  my 
second  cup. 

“ Yes,  I see  it  now,”  she  confessed.  “ I might  have 
seen  it  then.  But  I was  young.” 

She  glanced  at  me,  and  I nodded  entire  assent — she 
must  have  been  young  once. 

. . and  admired ” 

Her  glance  was  not  removed,  and  I nodded  more 
forcibly. 

“ . . . and  giddy.” 

I nodded  again,  but  entirely  on  trust. 

“ Yes,  my  dear.  And  young,  admired,  giddy  as 
I was,  I hardly  realized  his  latent  powers.  He  had,  of 
course,  a slight  limp ” 

(Why  “ of  course  ”?)  But  I only  nodded  once  more. 

“ I thought  it  a disfigurement : Sir  Walter  Scott 
limped,  but  I never  thought  then  of  the  peculiarities  of 
genius,  and  I think  it  prejudiced  me.  Also  he — no, 
not  stammered”  (I  felt  certain  from  the  miniature 
that  he  did),  “but  there  was  a certain  hesitancy  in  his 
speech,  like  Demosthenes — or  was  it  Socrates?  And 
I made  light  of  it — like  some  giddy  Athenian  youth, 
as  I was.  And  tho’  papa  wished  it,  and  his  own 
wife ” 

I jumped  instead  of  nodding,  but  Miss  Belvoir 
fortunately  was  gazing  at  Cortes,  and  didn’t  notice. 

“.  . . his  own  wife  on  her  death-bed  had  advised 
him  to  re-marry.  He  almost  urged  that  on  me : in  the 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXIV] 


167 


light  of  a duty.  But  I said  ‘ No.’  And,  since,  I have 
felt  my  responsibility.  A giddy  girl’s  responsibility  is 
very  great.  He  (I  am  sure)  knew  his  powers,  tho’ 
latent;  with  me  (as  he  put  it)  ‘ to  jog  him  up,’  he  might 
have  developed  them.  As  it  was  they  were — buried.” 
Her  tone  was  so  truly  sepulchral  that  I asked,  not 
unnaturally,  “ Did  he  die  soon  ? ” 

The  idea  of  the  gentleman  with  the  peepy  eyes  and 
the  indigo  hair,  dying  of  a broken  heart  for  the  giddy 
Miss  Belvoir  was  difficult,  but  touching. 

“ Die  ? my  dear : perhaps  I should  not  have  told 
you  of  the  past  (since  it  was  his  also,  and  not  ex- 
clusively mine).  But  I thought  you  recognized  him. 
Mr.  Gwent — Hudibras  Gwent,  he  was  to  me,  though 
now  no  more  so.” 

Mr.  Gwent ! I knew  him  well  by  sight.  He  was  the 
coroner,  and  his  grandson  was  at  school  with  Perkin: 
a gentleman  with  white  hair  (what  there  was  of  it;  and 
it  looked  a good  deal  till  he  took  his  hat  off)  and 
several  chins;  and  a “ presence  ” in  excess  of  his  height. 
Certainly  he  limped — on  one  crutch,  in  fact. 

I gasped. 

“ He  married  Tabitha  Lloyd,  an  inferior  woman, 
though  not  ill-looking,  and  between  three  and  four 
thousand  pounds;  not  five,  as  people  say:  under  that 
upas  tree  his  abeyant  powers  have  become  extinct.” 
Miss  Belvoir  might  fetch  her  metaphors  from  nature 
(or  poetry)  but  her  language  was  influenced  by  her 
heraldic  bias.  She  spoke,  I thought,  with  a gloomy  ex- 
ultation of  the  upas  tree,  and  of  Mr.  Gwent’s  powers 
being  extinct  under  it,  like  a peerage.  “ But,”  she 
concluded,  rising  and  going  to  a cupboard,  “ I was 
godmother  to  their  eldest  daughter,  and  that’s  why  she 


1 68 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXIV 

is  called  Adeliza;  they  have  no  family  names  of  their 
own,  and  are  mostly  called  out  of  the  Bible,  her  Lloyds 
are  no  particular  Lloyds,  you  understand.” 

Miss  Belvoir  unlocked  the  cupboard  and  produced 
thence  mulberry  cordial,  in  which  we  pledged  Sylvia. 
Miss  Belvoir  had  a mulberry-tree  in  her  garden,  and 
sent  us  all  presents  of  the  fruit  when  it  condescended 
to  bear  any,  which  was  about  once  in  three  years.  In 
return  we  sent  her  peaches.  At  Monksbridge  there  was 
a lively  exchange  of  such  presents — as  the  Baroness 
had  informed  us  on  her  first  visit. 

“ I shall  feel  that  now,”  she  had  remarked,  “ that  I 
have  no  garden  to  send  anybody  anything.” 

But  she  would  have  felt  it  more  if  Miss  Belvoir  had 
given  over  sending  mulberries,  and  Mr.  Bloom  no 
longer  sent  grapes,  and  we  had  not  risen  to  our  duty 
and  contributed  peaches. 

“ Yes,”  Miss  Belvoir  said,  with  a slow  shake  of  her 
head,  sipping  her  cordial,  “a  girl  has  a great  responsi- 
bility. On  her  ill-considered  decisions  so  much  may 
depend.  Your  sister  recognizes  that.  I understand  her. 
In  marrying  Lord  Monksbridge’s  heir  she  is  not  merely 
pleasing  her  own  idle  fancy,  but  devoting  herself  to 
a life-work,  to  the  playing  of  an  important  role.  Here’s 
success  to  her.”  I was  going  to  add  “ and  happiness,” 
but  my  mulberry  cordial  went  “ the  wrong  way,”  and 
I could  only  nod  as  I gulped  down  my  choke. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


When  Mrs.  FitzSimon  called  next  day  on  purpose  to 
tell  Miss  Belvoir  that  Sylvia  Auberon  was  undoubtedly 
engaged  to  Mr.  Monk,  she  found  that  lady  dignified  and 
mysterious. 

“ I fancy,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  “ that  I know  almost 
as  much  as  anybody  of  the  actual  position  of  affairs.” 

“ Well,  the  condition  is  that  they  are  engaged.” 

“ It  may  be  so,”  Miss  Belvoir  conceded,  with  a cool 
condescension. 

“ Oh,  but  it  is.  Mrs.  Auberon  told  me.  She  told  me 
this  morning.  There’s  no  secret  about  it,  though  Miss 
Auberon  does  not  wish  the  marriage  to  take  place 
immediately.” 

Miss  Belvoir  looked  annoyed,  chiefly,  perhaps,  with 
the  younger  Miss  Auberon,  who  seemed  to  have 
deceived  her. 

“ It  was  only  settled  yesterday — at  Llanthamy 
Castle.  He  proposed  ten  days  ago,  but  she  only  con- 
sented yesterday,”  added  Mrs.  FitzSimon. 

Then  Miss  Belvoir  absolved  me,  though  she  was  not 
pleased  with  Mrs.  FitzSimon  for  having  public  and 
authentic  information  before  her. 

“ What  a marriage  for  her ! ” cried  the  Warden’s 
lady : “ I never  could  see  anything  special  in  her.” 

“ Couldn’t  you  ? Then  I suspect  you’re  the  only 
person  in  the  country  who  couldn’t.  I don’t  know  that 
it  is  a great  marriage  for  her, — would  you  be  surprised 

169 


MONKSBRIDGE 


170 


[CH.  XXV 


to  hear  that  she  might  have  married  a Duke  if  she  had 
cared  to  try  for  one  ? ” 

“ Good  gracious ! ” And  at  last  Mrs.  FitzSimon 
began  to  feel  that  something  in  Miss  Auberon  had 
escaped  her. 

“ An  intimate  friend  of  mine,”  said  Miss  Belvoir, 
alluding  thus  darkly  to  Lady  Llantwddwy,  “ a 
peeress — assures  me  that  she  knows  the  Duke  and  all 
his  family,  and  that  if  Sylvia  had  been  that  scheming 
sort  of  girl  she  might  easily  have  been  a Duchess.” 

“ Dear  me ! She’ll  be  walking  over  us  all  when  she 
is  married,”  said  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  with  sudden  respect. 

“ I don’t  fancy  you’ll  see  much  of  her  when  she’s 
married,”  Miss  Belvoir  declared,  anxious  to  punish  the 
Warden’s  wife  for  having  known  more  than  she  did. 
“ You’ll  find  that  her  sphere  will  be  entirely  among 
the  great.” 

Mrs.  FitzSimon  did  not  like  that  at  all.  Her  father 
was  Dean  of  Lambeth,  and  went  to  Court  with  loyal 
assiduity;  any  caller  at  Warden’s  Lodge  might  read  his 
name,  while  waiting  the  descent  of  Mrs.  FitzSimon  to 
her  drawing-room,  in  a Morning  Post  casually  left 
about  for  a week  or  two  after  each  of  these  occasions; 
she  considered  him  to  be  “ O Mew  ” with  his  Sover- 
eign. 

“ Sylvia,”  Miss  Belvoir  added,  “ is  already  engaged 
to  stay  at  the  Duke’s,  and  at  Lord  Closeborough’s,  the 
most  important  houses  in  the  county.  Such  visits  lead 
inevitably  to  others.  She  will  be  little  seen  in  our  local 
society,  I fancy.” 

“ It  will  be  very  advantageous  for  Marjory,”  Mrs. 
FitzSimon  observed,  willing  to  leave  the  immediate 
consideration  of  Miss  Auberon’s  coming  splendour, 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXV] 


171 


“ and  she  needs  assistance.  She  would  never  make  her 
own  way  much.  She  has  her  brother’s  easiness  of 
disposition,  and  is  ready  to  be  intimate  anywhere.  And 
she  has  not  the  boy’s  talent — the  Warden  thinks  him 
likely  to  be  distinguished,  and  with  all  this  influence  he 
may  be  pushed  up  anywhere — he  won’t  push  himself ; 
he  has  no  Emulation.” 

“ Ah,”  said  Miss  Belvoir,  “ the  next  Lady  Monks- 
bridge  will  see  to  all  that.  Her  marriage  won’t  be  the 
end  of  the  story.” 

And  Miss  Belvoir  looked  as  if  she  knew  so  much 
that  she  sent  her  visitor  away  (without  any  mulberry 
cordial)  depressed  by  the  suspicion  that  Sylvia 
Auberon’s  engagement  was  only  one  item  in  a whole 
as  to  which  she,  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  could  only  indulge 
in  barren  conjecture. 

I think  I received  more  congratulations  than  Sylvia. 
She  had  not  my  way  of  pattering  about  the  town,  and 
was  not  so  easily  seen.  When  our  neighbours  called 
she  was  often  invisible,  and  very  soon  we  had  to  report 
her  as  away.  For  she  went  to  the  Duke’s  (by  “ the 
Duke  ” we  always  meant,  at  Monksbridge,  the  Duke  of 
Tilbury),  and  thence  to  Lady  Closeborough,  only  re- 
turning home  for  two  days,  when  she  carried  Mamma 
away  to  the  Duke  of  Menevia’s  at  Caerleon  Palace. 
Even  when  my  sister  was  at  home,  and  to  be  seen,  no 
one  said  a great  deal  to  her,  or  kissed  her;  but  I was 
embraced  on  all  hands,  and  received  volleys  of  con- 
gratulations. Mr.  Monk  was  not  much  mentioned;  he 
was  merely  implied  in  the  brilliance  of  Sylvia’s  meri- 
torious achievement,  as  if  he  had  been  an  opulent 
territory  conquered  by  her  prowess.  Hardly  any  one 
spoke  of  her  happiness,  or  of  his;  that  would  have  done 


MONKSBRIDGE 


172 


[CH.  XXV 


very  well  if  she  had  been  a nursery-governess  marrying 
a pleasant  young  bank  clerk. 

“ How  does  it  make  you  feel  ? ” Perkin  asked  me, 
hotly,  one  day  when  a party  of  congratulators  had  just 
departed.  Mamma  and  Sylvia  were  away,  and  he  was 
staying  at  home  to  take  care  of  me.  “ It  makes  me  feel 
as  if  we  were  all  snobs  together.  I hope  to  goodness 
you’ll  never  marry  anybody  in  particular.” 

“ Nobody  in  particular  wants  to  marry  me.” 

“ Ah ! but  Sylvia  has  carted  Mugs  off  this  time. 
Next  time  she  goes  a-Duking  you’ll  be  taken — and  then 
you’ll  see.  I never  saw  such  a girl ! She  never  thinks 
of  herself — I wouldn’t  mind  so  much  if  she  would  be 
selfish,  and  just  marry  her  own  swells  and  be  content. 
But  not  she.  She  doesn’t  care  a rap  for  herself,  or  for 
Hampden  Monk  either;  it’s  only  families  she  thinks  of : 
his  family  and  ours.  If  he  had  five  sisters,  she’d  insist 
on  Dukes  marrying  them  all.” 

“ I don’t  believe  there  are  five  unmarried  Dukes  in 
England,”  I objected,  with  my  incurable  insistence  on 
literal  facts. 

“ Then  she’d  make  five  Dukes  divorce  their  wives 
and  marry  the  five  Miss  Monks.  As  for  us — there’ll  be 
no  peace  for  us.” 

“ Why  there’s  only  Mamma  and  me.” 

“And  isn’t  that  enough?  If  Mugs  comes  back  a 
Marchioness-elect,  you’ll  see  I was  right.  And  you’ll 
follow  She  can’t  marry  me  to  anybody,  but  she’ll 
arrange  my  future.” 

“You’re  to  be  a bishop — so  you’re  safe  for  a good 
while.  Even  Sylvia  can’t  get  you  made  a bishop  at 
sixteen-and-a-hal  f . ” 

“ That  she  shan’t.  I don’t  intend  to  be  a parson  at 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXV] 


173 


all,  and  if  she  thinks  I shall,  she  has  made  one  mistake, 
anyway.” 

If  Hubert  Byrne  had  been  setting  Perkin  against 
being  a clergyman  I thought  it  rather  naughty  of  him, 
but  for  once  held  my  tongue  tactfully. 

When  Mamma  and  Sylvia  came  home,  I found  that 
Perkin  had  been  to  some  extent  a true  prophet.  Sylvia 
had  accepted  an  invitation,  not  to  a Duke’s,  but  to  Lord 
Severn’s,  and  I was  to  go  with  her.  And  the  Marquess 
of  Severn  was  so  tremendous  that  it  was  currently 
believed  he  would  regard  the  offer  of  a dukedom  as  an 
insult;  and  the  Ladies  Salop  never  married  young 
unless  they  married  Dukes.  Between  forty  and  fifty 
they  were  apt  to  become  Archdeaconesses. 

“ You  see,”  Sylvia  explained,  “ Hampden  is  going 
too;  and  I cannot  be  staying  about  where  he  is  with- 
out Mamma  or  you.” 

“ Why  not  Mamma?  ” I asked  fretfully. 

“ Well,”  my  sister  answered,  with  perfect  calmness 
and  temper,  “ it  is  partly  a question  of  dress.  Nearly 
the  same  people  will  be  at  Lord  Severn’s  as  we  have 
just  met  at  the  Duke  of  Menevia’s;  and  they  would 
remember  her  dresses.  There  would  not  be  time  to 
have  a couple  of  new  ones  made  for  Mamma,  and  ladies 
of  her  time  of  life  cannot  dress  in  tarlatan  and  book- 
muslin  as  you  can;  their  dress  has  to  be  handsomer  and 
more  costly.  I’m  sorry  if  it  bores  you,  but  you  will 
have  to  get  used  to  it,  and  you  may  just  as  well  begin 
at  once.  After  all,  you’ll  find  it  rather  amusing — it 
is  rather  amusing  comparing  these  people  with  our 
excellent  Miss  Belvoirs  and  Mrs.  FitzSimons.  You’re 
observant  in  your  way,  and  I think  it  will  amuse  you.” 
“ I prefer  Miss  Belvoirs,”  I said  doggedly. 


174 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXV 

“ As  to  that,”  Sylvia  pointed  out,  with  her  customary 
reasonableness,  “ you  can’t  tell  till  you’ve  seen  the  other 
people.  I think  I prefer  the  other  people — she’s  a 
decent  old  woman,  but  rather  prehistoric.” 

“ I like  her  better  than  Lady  Llantwddwy.” 

“ I’ve  no  objection;  I don’t  care  sixpence  for  either 
of  them.  I dare  say  they’re  much  of  a muchness.  The 
fact  is,  Lady  Llantwddwy  has  spent  so  many  years  be- 
ing toadied  by  middle-class  people  that  she  has  become 
rather  middle-class  herself.  She  stays  at  home  too 
much.  If  she  went  about  she  would  not  care  for 
Monksbridge  gossip.” 

And  here  I may  as  well  say  that  Sylvia,  with  all 
her  faculty  for  picking  up  information,  never  gossiped 
or  seemed  to  listen  to  gossip.  And  also  I felt  con- 
strained to  admit  to  myself  that  her  visits  to  these  big 
houses  had,  somehow,  improved  her.  She  still  got  her 
own  way,  and  managed  us  all,  but  the  tinge  of  over- 
bearingness she  used  to  have  at  our  first  coming  to 
Monksbridge,  had  disappeared.  She  had  never  been 
loud,  but  now  she  seemed  gentle;  and  her  manners 
were  perfect — though  I could  have  done  with  much 
less  of  them.  Her  power  of  assimilation  was  marvel- 
lous, and,  without  copying  any  one,  she  had  a fault- 
less instinct  for  the  best  models.  I resented  her  Dukes 
and  Marquesses  with  much  of  Perkin’s  irritable  an- 
noyance, nevertheless  I perceived  that  among  them 
all  she  had  been  meeting  some  nice  people. 

I was  a little  inquisitive  as  to  how  Mamma  had 
enjoyed  herself,  and  slightly  disappointed,  perhaps,  to 
find  that  she  had  enjoyed  herself  more  than  we 
(Perkin  and  I)  had  thought  probable. 

“ Oh,”  she  told  me,  “ Caerleon  is  a most  beaytiful 


MONKSBRIDGE 


175 


CH.  XXV] 

place;  my  bedroom  was  delightful,  with  the  loveliest 
view  down  a glade  in  the  park,  and  deer  in  it.  And  they 
were  very  kind  people.  The  Duchess  of  Menevia  re- 
minds me  so  of  a Mrs.  Bodger  we  knew  (your  dear 
papa  and  I)  at  Dulleigh  Magna  with  a hare-lip,  though 
the  Duchess  hasn’t  one — only  a slight  moustache, 
and  you  can’t  see  it  with  her  veil  on.  A very  good 
woman,  and  so  simple.  You  can  see  she  has  been  a 
beauty,  and  really  handsome  still,  but  no  beauty  airs, 
and  no  fine-lady  airs  either.  She  came  to  my  room 
once,  and  we  sat  and  talked  of  you  having  had  so  many 
diseases  one  after  another,  and  she  said  that  was  just 
like  Tighty  (they  call  Lady  Gwendoline  ‘ Tighty  ’). 

“ ‘ Tighty  always  caught  everything,’  she  said,  * and 
Bo  and  Gaby  never  did.’  They  call  Lord  St.  Botulph 
(the  eldest  son)  Bo,  and  Gaby  is  their  pet-name  for 
Lady  Gladws.  I told  her  of  Tribb’s  Emollient  for 
sore  throat,  and  she  took  the  receipt  down  on  the 
back  of  an  envelope  for  her  grandchildren.  Lady 
Gladws  is  married  and  the  Duchess  says,  ‘ her  girl  is 
croupy  in  foggy  weather.’  And  she  was  so  sympathetic 
talking  of  your  dear  papa.  ‘ I know  what  it  is,’  she 
said,  ‘to  lose  a young  husband,’  which  surprised  me 
rather,  for  the  Duke  is  nearly  seventy,  and  looks  quite 
healthy;  but  it  seems  she  was  a widow  when  he  married 
her  (and  only  a Mrs.  Colonel  Shorthose  of  the 
Guards).  But  oh,  Marjory,  don’t  tell  Sylvia  I said 
Mrs.  Colonel  Shorthose — it  was  a slip  of  the  tongue; 
it’s  very  vulgar  to  say  ‘ Mrs.  Admiral,’  or  ‘ Mrs. 
General  So-and-So  ’ now,  though  it  wasn’t  thought  so 
when  I was  a girl.  And  Sylvia  was  quite  charming 
all  the  time.  She  never  fussed  about  me,  or  seemed  to 
be  hanging  about  to  see  I did  everything  properly;  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


176 


[CH.  XXV 


yet  she  was  always  there  if  I wanted  her,  and  was  so 
devoted  and  affectionate,  just  like  that  nice  Lady 
Geraldine  Cumberland  to  her  mother,  Lady  Solway. 
Another  sweet  woman.  She  and  Lady  Severn  are 
sisters,  and  both  married  Marquesses,  but  they’re  as 
nice — they  might  be  doctors’  wives,  or  clergymen’s. 
Indeed,  Lady  Severn  seems  to  care  more  for  her 
poor  people  than  any  clergyman’s  wife  I ever  knew, 
and  she  likes  talking  about  them  better  than  anything; 
and  Lady  Solway  would  talk  for  ever  of  her  poor 
people,  especially  of  their  diseases — and  she  must 
nearly  ruin  the  doctors  in  her  neighbourhood  (only, 
of  course,  they  generally  have  club-doctors),  for  she 
knows  exactly  how  to  cure  everything  herself.  They 
are  twins,  like  you  and  Sylvia,  and  when  I mentioned 
it,  Lady  Solway  was  thoroughly  interested,  especially 
to  hear  that  you  and  Sylvia  are  not  like  each  other; 
for  Lady  Severn  is  dark  and  tall,  and  certainly  hand- 
some, whereas  Lady  Solway  is  shortish  and  of  a full 
habit,  with  her  chest  rather  high  up  (like  that  Mrs. 
Grebbers  at  Burlton),  so  that  it  gets  crumby,  I noticed, 
at  breakfast,  and  her  face  is  large  and  whitish,  with 
hair  of  no  special  colour,  and  a long  lip,  and  big  pale 
ears.  There  was  a landlady  at  Blackpool  (where  you 
had  chicken-pox,  and  she  charged  it  in  the  bill,  even 
your  papa  confessed,  though  she  put  it  down  as  break- 
ages and  depreciation  of  furniture)  just  like  her,  but  a 
totally  different  sort  of  woman.  Lady  Solway  would 
be  sympathy  itself,  and  really  generous,  though  any- 
thing but  extravagant.  Her  dress  was  as  plain 

* With  five  daughters  to  dress,  and  six  sons  to  put  out 
in  life,  I can’t  afford  to  be  smart,  Mrs.  Auberon,’  she 
told  me.  And  she  was  as  proud  as  Punch  of  a royal- 


CH.  XXV] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


1 77 


blue  velvet  she’d  had  dyed  black.  ‘ I diddled  McTavish 
out  of  it,  I’m  afraid,’  she  said  (meaning  her  maid), 
* and  I did  feel  rather  mean ; but  I gave  her  five  pounds 
conscience-money  to  make  up  for  it.’  The  elderly 
people  were  all  very  nice,  except  a Miss  Grogram  with 
half  a million  of  money  (from  pills,  I think),  who 
didn’t  seem  to  care  much  for  any  one  without  a title.  I 
rather  made  up  to  her  the  first  night,  as  Sylvia  had  told 
me  her  father  had  been  a butler  who  patented  an  em- 
brocation— it  was  embrocation,  not  pills.  But  she 
didn’t  take  any  interest,  and  gaped  when  I talked  about 
Perkin,  and  asked  if  I was  to  be  at  the  Duke’s  on  the 
twenty-ninth;  and  when  I said,  ‘What  Duke’s?’  she 
said,  ‘ Oh,  the  Duke  of  Ipswich’s.’  And  when  I told  her 
this  was  the  only  Duke’s  I had  stayed  at,  she  said, 
‘Quite  so,’  and  smiled,  as  if  I’d  confessed  to  being 
quite  vulgar.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


Sylvia  was  extremely  amiable  in  those  days  and  made 
quite  a little  speech  to  thank  me  for  not  refusing  to 
go  with  her  to  Lord  Severn’s. 

“ I had  to  say  yes  or  no  when  Lady  Severn  asked 
me  to  bring  you,”  she  explained.  “ I had  myself  refused 
at  first,  because  it  would  not  be  convenient  for  Mamma 
to  take  me,  and  she  said  at  once,  ‘ But  we  hear  of  your 
sister;  you  and  your  sister  must  come  together.  I 
quite  approve  of  your  not  choosing  to  go  about  to 
houses  where  Mr.  Monk  is  staying  without  one  of  your 
own  family  coming  with  you.  Do  let  it  be  settled  that 
we  are  to  expect  you  and  your  sister  on  the  ninth.’  So 
I accepted  for  us  both,  and  it  is  very  nice  of  you  not 
to  object.  No  doubt  you  think  it  a bore;  but,  you  see, 
Marjory,  I do  not  choose  to  be  separated  from  my 
family.  There’s  a Miss  Frilling  one  meets  everywhere, 
and  she  never  has  any  mother  or  sister  or  brother  or 
anybody  with  her;  she  is  quite  intimate  everywhere. 
But  you  can  see  that  she  is  looked  upon  as  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  girls  who  come  with  their  mothers  and 
sisters;  and  she  talks  more  to  the  young  men  than  to 
any  of  the  girls.  That  would  not  do  for  me  at  all;  I do 
not  choose  to  be  regarded  just  as  the  Miss  Auberon 
whom  Lord  Monksbridge’s  son  is  marrying.  I am  only 
one  of  the  Auberons,  and  people  must  understand  that  I 
and  my  family  are  all  one.  No  one  shall  say  of  me, 
‘Oh,  Sylvia  Auberon!  Yes;  you  see  her  everywhere. 
She’s  marrying  Lord  Monksbridge’s  son — I never 

178 


MONKSBRIDGE 


179 


CH.  XXVI] 

heard  of  her  people.’  I should  not  care  in  the  least  to 
marry  if  it  put  me  and  my  family  in  different — what’s 
the  word? — not  catalogues — categories.” 

Perkin  was  quite  right.  Sylvia,  as  he  said,  could 
never  think  of  herself  apart  from  her  family;  and  she 
did  not  think  it  of  the  least  consequence  that  our  ideas 
might  be  quite  different  from  hers.  She  would  gently 
but  firmly  get  her  own  ideas  into  us.  She  had  begun 
with  Mamma  and  had,  I thought,  already  made  more 
progress  than  Perkin  would  approve. 

“ Sylvia,”  I inquired  irrelevantly,  “ who  is  the 
Bishop  of  Lowminster?  ”, 

“ Oh ! ” she  sighed  carelessly,  “ his  name  is  Garboyle 
— Dr.  Garboyle.  He  writes  a good  deal,  against  the 
Pope  and  so  on,  or  he  used  to.  I’m  not  sure  whether 
his  books  were  written  before  he  became  a bishop  or 
since.  Lowminster  is  in  the  next  county,  as  of  course 
you  know;  but  he  doesn’t  live  there.  The  palace  is 
small  and  poky,  I fancy,  and  he  only  goes  there  for  or- 
dinations and  those  things ; the  real  palace  is  nine  miles 
out  of  Lowminster — Rood  Abbey  it  is  called.  In  the 
Roman  Catholic  times,  I believe,  the  canons  of  Low- 
minster were  all  monks,  and  the  Abbot’s  country  house 
was  out  at  Holy  Rood;  now  the  bishop  lives  there.  It 
is  a very  fine  place.” 

“ Will  he  be  at  Lord  Severn’s  ? ” 

“ I don’t  know,  I’m  sure — I should  think  not.  Do 
you  want  to  meet  him  ? ” 

“ Not  at  all.  But  he  was  at  Caerleon,  and  Mamma 
mentioned  him.” 

“ Yes,  very  likely.  He  was  extremely  civil  to  us, 
and,  as  he  did  not  shoot  or  hunt,  of  course,  he  naturally 
was  more  with  us  than  the  other  gentlemen.” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


180 


[CH.  XXVI 


“ And  Mrs.  Gumboil,  was  she  civil  too?  ” 

“ It  isn’t  Gumboil — Garboyle.  Pray  don’t  let  your- 
self fall  into  a habit  of  getting  names  wrong;  nothing 
is  more  fatal.” 

“Well,  Garboyle;  I should  think  Gargoyle  more 

suitable  for  a clergyman ” 

“ A clergyman ! You  don’t  meet  many  clergymen 
staying  at  houses  like  the  Duke’s.  He’s  a bishop;  and 
the  last  Bishop  of  Lowminster  became  Archbishop  of 
York,  and  another  moved  on  to  Canterbury.” 

Of  course,  I knew  Sylvia  was  dodging  me,  but  I 
was  persistent. 

“ You  won’t  say  whether  his  wife  was  nice,”  I 
observed.  “ I expect  she  was  a pig.” 

“ She  may  have  been,”  Sylvia  admitted  handsomely. 
“ Anyway  it  doesn’t  matter  to  us,  for  she’s  dead.” 

I thought  her  being  dead  did  matter  to  us,  but  I 
held  my  peace. 

“ About  your  dresses,”  Sylvia  went  on.  “ Do  let  us 
be  practical.  Your  dresses  are  the  point,  not  poor  Mrs. 
Garboyle — she  was  an  honourable  somebody  or  nobody, 
daughter  of  some  obscure  lord — a law-lord,  I think;  not 
of  any  importance.  Green  suits  you  (it  ruins  me).  So 
does  one  particular  white — a maize  so  pale  as  to  be 
almost  white  at  night.  You  must  have  three  new  ones, 
and  your  last  will  renovate — we  can  have  Bridget 
Clancy  in,  and  direct  her.  The  Irish  have  more  taste 
than  English  women.  They  are  more  like  the  French.” 
Bridget  Clancy  came  from  Llanthamy  (not  the 
Castle,  but  the  town),  but  Sylvia  did  not  mind — a 
dressmaker  is  not  seen,  and  one  does  not  mention  her 
to  one’s  friends.  I had,  indeed,  once  heard  Sylvia 
mention  her,  but  not  by  name,  merely  as  “ our  sewing- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


181 


CH.  XXVI] 

maid.”  The  Baroness  had  insinuated  that  a dress  my 
sister  was  wearing  must  have  been  made  by  herself,  it 
showed  such  taste  and  skill. 

“ No,  indeed,”  Sylvia  had  said,  “ I wish  I could 
make  my  own  clothes.  I am  a fool  at  anything  of  the 
kind.  It  was  made  by  our  sewing-maid.” 

Under  my  sister’s  guidance,  Bridget  made  me  three 
new  dresses,  and  made  one,  not  absolutely  new  one, 
look  as  if  it  was  new.  I confess  they  were  pretty, 
and  Sylvia  praised  my  appearance  in  them. 

“ It  is  so  fortunate,”  she  said,  “ that  we  are  not  in 
the  least  alike;  our  colouring  so  different,  our  height, 
and  figure,  and  everything.  No  one  will  compare  us. 
You  set  up  for  yourself  on  independent  lines.” 

“ Madge  is  quite  as  pretty  now  as  most  of  the  girls 
we  saw  at  Caerleon,”  Mamma  declared. 

“Certainly.  And  her  eyes  are  uncommon.  So  is 
her  mouth — don’t  be  impertinent,  Marjory;  but  that 
look,  while  you  hold  your  tongue,  as  if  you  were  going 
to  say  something  impertinent,  is  characteristic;  and 
it  goes  with  your  nose.  People  will  notice  it.  And 
so  long  as  you  aren’t  impertinent  it  keeps  people  in  or- 
der to  think  you  could  be — only  don’t  go  beyond  the 
look;  you’d  lose  by  it.  That  annoys  people,  and  be- 
sides, they  don’t  mind  when  you’ve  said  your  worst. 
Keep  a reserve.” 

I was  quite  cowed  by  all  this  new  sort  of  advice 
and  wisdom. 

“ And  * manner  ’ ? ” I observed  gruffly.  “ You  used 
to  entreat  me  to  cultivate  it.” 

Sylvia  laughed,  quite  pleasantly.  “ So  I did.  I 
was  young  then”  (she  was  not  twenty  yet).  “I 
might  as  well  have  told  a sandhill  to  cultivate  pine- 


182  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxvi 

apples.  You  never  had  ‘ manner,’  and  you  never  will. 
But  it  isn’t  necessary ; so  long  as  you  have  such  a total 
want  of  it.  It  almost  looks  like  a manner  of  your  own. 
That  is  another  good  thing;  it  makes  us  more  different. 
No  one  will  compare  us.  I’m  like  a looking-glass, 
and  reflect  everything  I look  at — only  I know  where 
to  look,  and  you  wouldn’t.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


I said  long  ago  that  I had  given  up  expecting  to  know 
beforehand  what  Sylvia  would  do;  but  it  is  hard  to 
give  up  trying  to  do  what  one  knows  is  impossible, 
and  before  going  to  Severn  Court  I felt  almost  sure 
she  would  drill  me,  and  warn  me,  and  try  to  nudge 
me  into  line  and  position.  How  hard  it  is  for  those 
in  his  own  country  to  know  a prophet!  Sylvia  was 
a thousand  times  cleverer  than  I thought — really  be- 
lieving that  half  her  cleverness  was  mere  obstinacy 
and  self-will.  Especially  I had  imagined  she  would 
hold  out  as  a model  the  elder  Miss  Auberon.  She 
did  no  such  thing.  Nothing  was  evidently  further 
from  her  ideas  than  that  I should  figure  as  her  twin — 
moon  to  her  sun.  One  reason  why  she  now  seemed 
less  managing  than  she  used  to  be  was  that  she  had  a 
serener  confidence  in  her  own  powers  of  management ; 
and  this  made  her  leave  little  things  more  alone.  She 
set  causes  to  work,  and  had  a placid  trust  in  their  pro- 
ducing legitimate  effects. 

I have  always  liked  travelling,  not  only  seeing 
places,  but  the  process  of  getting  to  them,  and  I never 
could  understand  people  who  talk  of  being  tired  by 
a journey.  I like  being  in  the  train,  and  it  was  a 
long  time  since  I had  gone  anywhere  by  train  when 
Sylvia  and  I went  to  Severn  Court.  Of  course 
Mamma  saw  us  off,  and  insisted  we  had  forgotten 
half  the  things  we  ought  to  have  with  us;  and  when 
we  proved  we  had  not,  she  was  nervously  confident 

183 


MONKSBRIDGE 


184 


[CH.  XXVII 


we  should  lose  them  at  Dulchurch,  where  we  had  to 
change. 

“ Mamma  dear,  I never  do  forget  or  lose  anything,” 
said  Sylvia,  mildly.  “ Lady  Monksbridge  will  come 
for  you  to-morrow  to  take  you  over  there  to  luncheon. 
I think  she  would  like  you  to  ask  her  to  luncheon  in 
return,  and  those  pheasants  would  do  so  well.  Ask 
her  for  Thursday.” 

At  last  we  were  off  (Mamma  had  got  us  to  the 
station  twenty  minutes  too  soon),  and  she  looked 
rather  desolate  alone  on  the  platform,  waving  to  the 
last  moment;  I saw  her  give  a little  jump  in  the  mid- 
dle of  her  waving,  and  knew  she  had  suddenly  re- 
membered something  else  she  was  sure  we  had  for- 
gotten. With  all  her  confidence  in  Sylvia  she  had  a 
still  older  confidence  in  the  malignant  tendency  of  lug- 
gage to  get  itself  left  behind. 

“ Poor  Mamma — how  lonely  she  looks,”  I said, 
drawing  in  my  head,  as  we  plunged  into  the  tunnel, 
and  feeling  guilty  for  having  left  her,  though  it  was 
none  of  my  doing. 

“ She  won’t  be  in  the  least  lonely.  Lady  Monks- 
bridge is  going  to  look  after  her;  they  get  on  so  well 
together,”  my  sister  replied  calmly,  settling  herself 
comfortably  into  her  corner.  “ It  is  so  fortunate  that 
we  got  the  carriage  to  ourselves.  You  can  have  a 
corner  by  the  window  with  your  face  to  the  engine.” 

The  station  for  Severn  Court  is  called  Little  Tony, 
which  sounded,  I thought,  like  a pet-name  for  some- 
body, but  was  only  to  distinguish  it  from  Earl’s  Tony, 
and  Tony  Royal.  There  was  no  village  to  speak  of, 
and  we  were  the  only  people  who  got  out  of  the  train 
there,  but  there  were  two  porters  and  a station-master, 


CH.  XXVIl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


185 

and  they  all  leapt  from  their  scabbards,  so  to  speak, 
in  their  polite  eagerness  to  make  much  of  us.  Every 
first-class  passenger  alighting  at  Little  Tony  was  sure 
to  be  bound  for  Severn  Court,  and  in  our  case  there 
was  no  doubt  at  all,  for  a brougham  from  thence 
awaited  us,  and  a footman  belonging  to  it  presented 
himself  promptly  at  the  door  of  our  carriage  to  take 
our  rugs  and  pretend  to  take  all  our  smaller  luggage 
— which  really  fell  to  the  porters  and  the  station- 
master. 

They  all,  evidently,  regarded  me  as  a sort  of  lady- 
in-waiting  to  Sylvia  (we  were  fortunately  so  differ- 
ent) ; but  then,  when  the  potentate  is  really  great,  the 
lady-in-waiting  shines  (mildly)  in  her  splendour.  I 
was  taller  than  Sylvia,  and  looked  now,  if  anything, 
older;  but  at  nineteen  I was  merely  a girl,  and  she 
was  a personage. 

She  tipped  the  station-master  and  the  two  porters, 
and  explained  to  me,  in  the  brougham  afterwards, 
that  it  was  better  to  do  it  on  arriving  rather  than  on 
going  away.  “ Of  course,”  she  said,  “ the  coachman 
and  footman  notice  it,  and  it  gives  them  a good  idea 
of  you.  By  the  time  you  go  away  it  doesn’t  matter.” 

We  drove  through  the  little  village,  and  across  a 
goose-green,  and  I observed  that  all  the  cottages  had 
stone  slabs  on  them  with  a big  “ S ” and  a Mar- 
quess’s coronet  over  it.  Then  by  a church,  with  one 
round  eye  in  the  tower  like  a wink,  and  past  the 
Vicarage  (Lord  Severn  was  lay-rector  of  all  the  par- 
ishes round,  and  had  the  great  tithes),  at  the  gate  of 
which  a clerical-looking  lady  was  talking  to  a crooked 
old  man  with  a sack  round  his  shoulders.  And  so 
out  into  unmitigated  country  where  there  was  noth- 


1 86 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXVII 

ing  but  wind  and  trees,  and  cold  fields  with  a rising 
fog  in  them.  The  trees  were  nearly  bare,  and  yet  the 
darkening  air  seemed  full  of  whirling  leaves.  It  ap- 
peared to  be  a flattish,  oozy  country,  and  the  road 
seemed  too  big  for  it;  one  could  not  imagine  a town 
anywhere  near,  and  we  only  met  one  little  group  of 
travellers — a pert,  cheerful-looking  gipsy  man,  with 
a rabbit  in  his  mouth  as  if  he  were  a sort  of  retriever, 
and  his  wife  with  a brown  baby  on  her  back. 

Presently  there  was  a park  on  one  side  of  us,  and 
then  we  came  to  a lodge  like  a Greek  temple  with  an- 
other temple  opposite,  and  a colonnade  between.  I 
supposed  that  to  go  to  bed  the  lodge-keeper’s  family 
had  to  go  from  one  temple  to  the  other,  and  thought 
that  a passage  on  the  top  of  the  colonnade  might 
have  been  a convenience  in  rainy  weather.  We  drove 
under  the  colonnade  and  skirted  a twisting  lake,  where 
seven  swans  looked  as  if  they  were  catching  cold,  and 
two  others  were  standing  on  their  heads  to  warm  their 
feet.  To  our  right  there  was  a low  mound  with  a 
triumphal  arch  on  the  top,  and  no  road  passing 
through  it. 

Then  the  road  dipped  a little,  and  then  it  turned 
gratuitously  up-hill  a little,  just  to  prove,  I thought, 
that  the  county  was  not  as  flat  as  a pancake.  But  you 
could  see  it  was  a real  park,  hundreds  of  years  old; 
the  trees  were  ancient  and  many  of  them  huge,  oth- 
ers had  lost  half  their  branches  in  some  wintry  gale, 
and  were  propped  up  with  timber  supports.  After 
three  miles  of  it  we  came  to  another  lodge,  Gothic 
this  time,  with  a sort  of  moat  curving  away  on  each 
side  of  it ; it  didn’t  look  a bit  like  Lord  Monksbridge’s 
Gothic  lodge,  and  was  in  fact  all  that  was  left  of  a 


ch.  xxvii]  MONKSBRIDGE  187 

castle  battered  down  by  General  Ludlow.  Beyond  it 
we  skirted  a long  high  wall,  and  some  kennels  with 
a wolfish  noise  inside,  and  then  out  into  the  open 
again;  it  was  dusk  now,  and  out  of  a huge  expanse 
of  flat  gardens  rose  an  immense  square  palace  with 
rows  and  rows  of  lighted  windows,  which  looked  like 
an  outrageous  stone  box.  Nothing  of  its  fine  faqade 
showed  in  the  half-darkness,  only  its  dark  overbear- 
ing massive  squareness,  perforated  with  ugly  slits  of 
light.  Had  we  arrived  ten  minutes  later  all  those 
tall  glaring  slits  would  have  been  quenched,  the  win- 
dows shuttered  and  curtained,  and  there  would  have 
been  but  one  huge,  black  bulk,  with  a watery  moon- 
light behind  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


The  first  sight  of  his  house  convinced  me  that  Lord 
Severn  must  be  a stony  person,  of  unsociable  dimen- 
sions, of  caryatid  build,  with  a female  caryatid  for 
Marchioness,  wearing  a granite  slab  for  cap — since 
she  was  not  likely  to  appear  in  a coronet,  no  corona- 
tion being  impending.  As  usual,  I was  wrong.  Lord 
Severn  looked  like  the  miniature  model  for  a noble- 
man to  be  executed,  with  the  purchaser’s  improve- 
ments, on  a larger  scale;  but  highly  finished  all  the 
same.  His  hands  and  feet  were  tiny,  and  seemed  to 
have  been  designed  with  perfect  skill  and  great  care. 
All  the  usual  features  were  there,  and  exactly  pro- 
portioned. He  was  not  fat,  nor  thin;  neither  smart 
nor  shabby ; to  be  handsome  and  so  small  would  have 
been  out  of  place,  but  he  was  neither  plain  nor  hand- 
some. What  struck  you  at  once  was  that  he  was  an 
excellent  man,  and  shrewd  without  being  sharp,  hon- 
est and  ready  to  assume  the  honesty  of  everybody 
not  yet  proven  a knave;  clever,  too,  without  setting 
any  great  store  by  cleverness,  as  if  he  had  found 
it  apt  to  keep  queer  company.  I never  saw  any  one 
simpler  in  manner,  but  you  felt  at  once  that  this  little 
man  was  a big  man,  and  had  always  known  it  too  well 
to  be  under  the  least  necessity  of  calling  heaven  or 
earth  to  witness  the  fact. 

His  welcome  was  perfect.  You  knew  he  wouldn’t 
have  anybody  in  his  house  who  had  no  business  there ; 
and  from  the  moment  you  received  his  greeting  you 

188 


ch.  xxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE  189 

had  no  arriere-pensee  of  uneasiness  as  to  your  being 
in  the  right  place.  He  was  friendly  and  kind,  but 
never  gushing  or  effusive;  the  fact  that  you  were  his 
guest  made  you  his  equal  for  all  that  mattered;  and 
yet  it  was  not  that  he  pretended  a surface  ignoring 
of  facts ; he  was  an  enormously  rich  man,  and  he  knew 
it,  and  knew  that  it  laid  great  duties  on  him ; knowing 
also  that  some  of  his  guests  were  anything  but  rich: 
he  thought  much  of  birth,  and  counted  it  also  a respon- 
sibility, but  remembered  well  that  ancient  descent  was 
not  always  titled:  he  knew,  too,  that  he  was  of  high 
rank,  and  for  that  reason  he  felt  an  obligation  of  high 
conduct  over  and  above  the  common  duty  of  all 
Christians.  Of  religion  I never  heard  him  talk  but 
once,  and  then  as  if  it  were  an  indispensable  depart- 
ment of  State;  all  the  same  he  was  a sincerely  reli- 
gious man,  honest,  charitable,  of  irreproachable  life 
and  clean  mind.  No  one  was  more  fully  aware  than 
he  that  with  this  life  all  his  wealth  and  rank  would  be 
taken  from  him,  but  he  thought  it  as  much  his  duty 
to  preserve  and  value  his  high  station  and  vast  pos- 
sessions in  the  meantime  as  it  was  to  preserve  and 
value  health  and  life. 

Lady  Severn  was  not  like  him  in  any  outward 
feature,  being  stately  and  beautiful,  but  in  character 
they  were  well  matched,  and  no  one  could  see  them 
together  without  being  certain  that  they  had  married 
for  love,  and  that  twenty  years  of  life  together  had 
only  made  them  more  truly  one  in  love  and  respect. 
Her  manner  was  a little  graver  than  his,  but  equally 
cordial,  and  she  had  the  same  way  of  seeming  to 
take  it  for  granted  that  your  being  a guest  in  her 
house  was  a proof  that  you  were  fit  to  be  there. 


190  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxviii 

“ This,”  she  said,  introducing  her  son,  “ is  Bridge- 
north.  And  here,”  she  added,  with  a little  smile, 
to  Sylvia,  “ is>  some  one  who  has  been  waiting  for 
you.” 

Of  course,  it  was  Mr.  Monk;  he  and  Lord  Bridge- 
north  were  standing  together,  and  they  made  a good 
contrast.  They  were  both  very  good  looking — Hamp- 
den Monk  tall,  dark,  thin  and  rather  icy;  the  boy  (he 
was  not  nineteen)  tall  too,  but  brilliantly  fair,  with 
shining  grey-blue  eyes,  and  a lively,  easy  manner  that 
made  one  think  both  of  Perkin  and  Hubert. 

Sylvia  and  Mr.  Monk  met  as  if  they  had  each  heard 
something  quite  to  the  other’s  advantage,  and  made  a 
note  of  it:  as  if  they  held  similar  views  on,  say,  the 
Moabite  Stone,  or  the  identity  of  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask;  and  as  if,  should  a suitable  opportunity  arise, 
they  would  be  glad  to  resume  the  discussion  of  those 
interesting  subjects,  but  were  in  no  hurry  to  force  the 
opportunity.  Still  it  was  evident  that  Mr.  Monk,  as 
he  looked  at  her,  was  assuring  himself  that  he  had 
made  no  mistake  about  Sylvia’s  beauty,  and  yet  it 
was  with  as  distant  and  impersonal  an  admiration  as 
he  might  have  shown,  had  he  recently  purchased  Mont 
Blanc  and  met  it  in  the  best  society. 

There  were  many  other  guests,  but  only  two  of 
them  concern  us  at  present. 

Our  host  and  hostess  had  welcomed  us  in  a huge 
room  called  the  White  Saloon;  and  at  the  moment 
they,  their  son,  and  Mr.  Monk  were  its  only  occupants 
besides  ourselves.  But  a few  minutes  later  two  gen- 
tlemen walked  in  from  another  room  opening  from 
it  by  a wide  arch,  if  you  can  call  that  an  arch  which 
has  a flat  top,  supported  on  malachite  pillars. 


ch.  xxvm]  MONKSBRIDGE  191 

“ We  have  finished  our  letters ! ” said  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  ambling  up  to  Lady  Severn  with  a smile 
that  was  not  meant  to  suggest  amusement,  but  merely 
to  impress  a universal  peace  and  goodwill,  inclusive 
of  all  her  Majesty’s  subjects  except  Roman  Catholics. 
He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  a full  head  taller  than 
the  Marquess,  and  broad  in  proportion,  though  not 
fat.  His  features  were  as  neat  as  his  dress,  and  his 
hands  were  as  clean  as  his  cuffs,  and  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  both.  He  had  a good  leg — two  in  fact : 
and  their  fair  proportions  stood  confessed  in  gaiters : 
he  was  in  short  a bishop,  and  I instantly  concluded 
(rightly  for  once)  that  he  was  the  Bishop  of  Low- 
minster.  He  seemed  glad  to  see  Sylvia,  and  not  quite 
so  glad  to  see  me  as  her  companion. 

“ Oh ! ” he  said,  in  response  to  a congratulation  on 
having  finished  his  letters.  “ Mr.  Auld-Baillie  helped 
me.  He  has  been  quite  a private  secretary.” 

And  his  lordship  beamed  on  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  and 
rubbed  his  hands,  and  smiled  around.  He  was  really 
a good-natured  man,  and  he  liked  people  in  general. 
All  the  same,  I saw  that  he  would  have  liked  me  bet- 
ter had  I been  somebody  else : so  I didn’t  like  him,  and 
found  his  teeth  too  white,  and  a little  too  large  and 
numerous,  and  saw  nothing  to  admire  in  his  bulging 
calves. 

Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was  a young  man;  he  had  been  a 
young  man  at  eighteen,  and  he  was  a young  man  still 
at  eight  and  thirty : tallish,  well-built  and  well-looking : 
prosperous-looking  too,  and  with  every  right  to  ap- 
pear so.  He  had  six  or  seven  thousand  a year,  and  no 
incumbrances  (not  even  a wife),  a good  estate,  and 
tenants  who  all  paid  their  rents,  and  no  jointures  to 


192  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxviii 

pay  himself,  or  younger  brothers  and  sisters  to  pro- 
vide for. 

He  had  been  a Member  of  Parliament  for  a dozen 
years,  and  had  usually  contrived  to  speak  (at  some 
length,  though  not  to  a very  full  house)  at  least  once 
in  each  of  those  years,  and  always  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, and  more  or  less  in  the  same  terms.  For  rich, 
healthy,  respected  and  prosperous  as  he  was,  there 
was  one  drop  of  bitterness  in  his  cup,  and  that  one 
drop  was — Convents.  He  could  not  possibly  forget 
or  forgive  them.  The  only  ladies  he  had  hitherto 
thought  much  of  were  nuns  (though  in  one  sense  he 
thought  very  little  of  them).  He  hated  them,  in  all 
Evangelical  charity,  and  longed  to  befriend  them — by 
abolishing  them  root  and  branch,  and,  in  the  interim, 
by  inspecting  them.  Factories  had  inspectors,  and 
convents  must  have  them;  if  the  people  in  factories 
liked  having  inspectors,  and  the  nuns  didn’t  want 
them,  it  only  showed  how  much  worse  nuns  were  than 
factory-girls.  It  was  on  that  theme  he  spoke  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  on  no  other;  taxes  and  re- 
forms were  all  leather  and  prunella,  the  only  reform 
worthy  of  consideration  was  that  of  laying  open  the 
privacy  of  nuns  to  Government  Inspectors.  A gruff 
and  burly  Catholic  Bishop  had  offered  to  give  him 
leave  to  inspect  at  any  moment,  without  warning,  any 
convent  in  his  vast  diocese ; but  that  would  not  satisfy 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie  at  all.  He  did  not  want  an  in- 
spector admitted  de  bon  gre,  but  inspectors  who  should 
force  themselves  in  de  mol  gre.  He  dreamed  of  nuns, 
not  indiscreetly,  but  simply  of  the  whippings  and 
starvings  they  were  receiving  at  the  hands  of  Ab- 
besses. Pie  thought  of  them  while  shaving,  and  as  he 


193 


ch.  xxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE 

laid  his  respectable  head  on  the  pillows  of  those  ducal, 
baronial  and  Marquessial  houses  he  frequented,  al- 
ways decorously,  never  with  any  other  desire  than 
that  of  having  them  inspected  and  shown  up. 

To  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster  he  was  almost  a son; 
and  the  bishop  would  not  have  objected  to  his  being 
a son-in-law  (for  the  late  Mrs.  Garboyle  had  left  one 
monument  of  their  love) ; but  the  monument  did  not 
interest  Mr.  Auld-Baillie ; she  was  not  a nun,  and  her 
hair  was  red,  as  was  her  nose.  Could  Miss  Garboyle 
have  been  all  the  nuns  in  England  he  might  have 
married  her  as  a duty,  fraught  with  grim  pleasure. 
As  it  was  he  didn’t  think  her  quite  his  social  equal; 
and  marrying  her  would  not  have  made  the  slightest 
difference  to  any  convent  anywhere.  I was  not  a 
nun  either,  but  he  did  not  look  at  me  with  the  sort 
of  disappointment  that  his  lordship  betrayed  at  my 
not  being  another  member  of  my  family. 

“ I never,”  said  Sylvia,  while  we  were  dressing  for 
dinner,  “ saw  him  take  so  much  to  any  girl.  I wish  you 
were  an  escaped  abbess.” 

Then  she  explained  about  Mr.  Auld-Baillie’s  fond- 
ness for  nuns,  “ a fondness,  that  is  to  say,”  like  Tom 
Tulliver’s  for  animals,  “ for  throwing  stones  at 
them.” 

“ What  harm  do  they  do?”  I asked,  not  much  ad- 
miring Mr.  Auld-Baillie’s  hobby. 

“ None  in  particular.  They  are  old  maids  provided 
for.  I suppose  if  somebody  married  them  all,  there 
wouldn’t  be  any.” 

It  didn’t  seem  as  if  she  took  any  special  interest 
in  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  and  just  then  I made  a remark 
that  turned  her  attention  to  something  else. 


194 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxviii 

She  had  finished  dressing,  and  was  stooping  over 
the  fire  warming  her  pretty  feet,  first  one,  then  the 
other;  and,  as  she  leant  forward,  her  locket  hung 
loose,  and  I could  see  the  back  of  it.  The  only  jewel- 
lery she  wore  was  this  locket  and  three  rings,  three 
plain  half-hoops  of  large  diamonds,  sapphires,  and 
rubies,  one  of  which  was  her  engagement  ring.  All 
three,  and  the  locket,  were  presents  from  Mr.  Monk; 
the  locket  was  rather  large  and  very  handsome;  in 
front  there  was  one  very  big  sapphire,  flat  and  oblong, 
surrounded  by  fine  diamonds;  on  the  back  was  a place 
for  hair  or  a miniature-portrait,  but  under  the  glass 
there  was  no  hair  or  portrait  to  be  seen,  only  a little 
piece  of  blue  silk. 

“ Sylvia,”  I said  abruptly,  “ there’s  nothing  in  your 
locket;  only  a reserved  seat.” 

She  put  up  her  hand,  and  laughed. 

“ Oh ! I forgot  to  put  it  in,”  she  said,  calmly.  “ He 
gave  me  a lock  of  his  hair  for  it.  It  was  in  a little 
bit  of  tissue  paper.  Oh!  now  I remember — I was 
reading  ‘ Phineas  Finn’  (the  people  in  it  are,  many 
of  them,  like  those  one  meets  in  these  sort  of  places, 
or  else  I don’t  see  much  in  it)  and  I shut  it  up  in 
the  book  to  keep  the  place;  after  he  had  gone,  of 
course,  I finished  the  chapter.  And  there  it  is,  at 
home;  Mamma  was  right,  you  see,  though  really  I 
hardly  ever  forget  anything.  It  was  stupid  of  me.” 
She  paused,  and  looked  about  her  thoughtfully. 

“ Will  he  find  out  ? ” I asked.  “ Will  he  look  at  it  ? ” 
“ Yes,  he’ll  look  at  it.  But,  certainly,  he  would 
never  dream  of  touching  it.  Still,  it  is  stupid.  Your 
hair  is  quite  a different  colour,  so  is  mine.” 

Then  she  looked  down,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the 


ch.  xxviii ] MONKSBRIDGE  195 

rug  on  which  she  was  standing.  It  was  of  fur,  some 
long,  dark  fur,  nearly  black. 

“ Ah ! ” she  said,  “ how  lucky ! ” 

And  she  went  to  the  dressing-table,  brought  back  a 
little  pair  of  scissors,  stooped  down,  and  cut  from 
the  rug  a lock  of  its  hair. 

“ You  embroider?  where  are  your  silks?  ” she  then 
demanded,  and  I pointed  to  the  box  in  which  they 
were.  She  went  over  to  it,  to  choose  a pale  blue,  from 
which  she  cut  a short  thread  with  which  she  tied  up 
her  lock  of  hair — some  sort  of  bear’s,  I think.  This 
she  trimmed,  and  taking  off  the  locket,  opened  it  at 
the  back,  and  put  the  hair  in,  then  closed  it  again, 
and  surveyed  it  with  mild  satisfaction. 

“ It  is  just  the  colour,”  she  observed.  “ If  it  should 
hang  loose  again,  or  get  turned  the  wrong  way — one 
should  always  count  on  accidents — it  would  be  all 
right,  even  if  he  were  looking.  Come,  there’s  the 
bell.” 

All  this  time  I had  watched  her  silently ; my  sister 
stupefied  me,  and  no  remark  of  mine  could  have  done 
justice  to  my  feelings. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


At  dinner  I sat  between  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  who  took 
me  in,  and  Lord  Bridgenorth,  who  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  Lady  Hermione  Cressy,  whose  mamma,  the 
Countess  of  Agincourt,  loomed  large  and  crapey  over 
against  us,  but  a little  to  our  left.  The  late  Lord 
Agincourt  had  gone,  not  very  recently,  to  that  bourne 
whence  Earls  do  not  return,  and  Lady  Hermione  was 
a co-heiress.  There  was  also  a Lady  Philippa,  and 
the  House  of  Lords  had  not  yet  made  up  its  mind 
whether  one  should  be  Baroness  Cinque  Ports  and 
the  other  Baroness  Nonsuch,  or  whether  neither  should 
be  a Baroness  at  present. 

Lady  Hermione  was  pretty  and  pleasant,  and  she 
made  friends  with  me  across  Lord  Bridgenorth,  who 
seemed  disposed  to  share  his  good-nature  between  us. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  looked  as  if  he  thought 
these  passages  on  my  right  were  uncalled  for,  and 
felt  them  an  interruption.  His  remarks  were  apt  to 
degenerate  into  speeches,  and  sounded  as  if  he  knew 
them  by  heart;  they  had  a regular  line  of  argument, 
and  it  bothered  him  to  have  the  thread  of  it  broken. 

“We’re  so  sorry  for  you,”  said  Lady  Hermione  (in 
a voice  stifled  partly  by  tact  and  partly  by  a mouthful 
of  vol-an-vent ) across  Lord  Bridgenorth — a Miss 
Beaufront,  on  the  other  side  of  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  had 
momentarily  distracted  his  attention  by  an  ill-timed 
appeal  for  salt.  “ We’re  so  sorry  for  you.  You  might 

I96 


ch.  xxix]  MONKSBRIDGE  197 

as  well  be  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Isn’t  it  awful, 
Briggy?” 

Lady  Hermione,  who  looked  hardly  seventeen,  and 
Lord  Bridgenorth  were  cousins,  and  called  each  other 
Briggy  and  Glorum. 

“ Try  and  shunt  him  on  to  his  other  neighbour,” 
Lord  Bridgenorth  advised  me,  with  real  feeling.  “ She 
rather  likes  it;  and  she  can  cope  with  him  better.” 

It  struck  me  that  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was  aware  of 
it,  and  preferred  me  as  a listener.  Miss  Beaufront 
would  seize  a pretended  clue  and  run  off  with  it  in 
a speech  of  her  own.  She  had  a precipitous  way  of 
talking,  and  would  climb  up  words  and  tumble  down 
over  them,  and  be  up  again,  as  if  they  were  jumps  in 
a steeplechase;  and  some  of  the  words  she  used  were 
not  those  she  wanted,  and  only  remotely  resembled 
them  even  in  sound,  but  she  let  them  come  tumbling 
out  of  her  mouth,  and  never  stopped  to  pick  them  up 
again. 

“ Ah ! Marriage ! ” I heard  her  say,  rushing  off 
with  her  cue.  “Yes,  the  proper  goal  of  woman;  but 
marriage  itself  is  often  a rockery — and  there  aren’t 
prizes  enough  to  go  round.  People  have  different 
vacations — some  women  may  be  called  to  be  old 
maids ” 

“ Oh,  quite  so,”  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  agreed,  very  hand- 
somely. 

“ And  some  men  may  be  called  to  be  old  bacchusses. 
No  one  interferes  with  them.  I don’t  see  what’s  the 
harm  of  being  a nun  if  you  don’t  mind  it.” 

“ The  harm  is ” Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was  beginning, 

but  Miss  Beaufront  snapped  the  argument  out  of  his 
mouth  and  made  off  with  it. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


198 


[CH.  XXIX 


“I  quite  follow  you”  (“follow”  indeed!)  “and 
agree  up  to  a point.  The  danger  would  be  of  a uni- 
versal intimation;  but  is  there  any  fear  of  it?  One 
never  imitates  what  one  really  dislikes,  and  the  life  of 
nuns  is  not  likely  to  be  one  of  general  seduction  to  the 
bulk  of  women.  It’s  poky,  I should  say;  and  the  same- 
ness!— one  shrinks  from  mahogany.” 

Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  I think,  would  have  been  glad  to 
shrink  a good  way  down  the  mahogany;  but  if  he  him- 
self embodied  a certain  monotony,  Miss  Beau  front  did 
not  shrink  from  it. 

“ The  Convent,”  he  interrupted  desperately,  “ is  the 
parody  of  the  Home,  and  Home  is  the  true  sphere  of 
practical  religion.” 

“ There  I’m  with  you — home  is  the  place  for  reli- 
gion,” chipped  in  Miss  Beaufront,  who  was  never  at 
home  if  she  could  help  it.  “ And  there’s  no  doubt 
nuns  push  religion  too  far — that’s  why  I don’t  think 
there’s  any  fear  of  generous  limitation.”  She  knew 
quite  well  she  meant  “ general  imitation  ” and  hadn’t 
said  it,  but  she  didn’t  bother.  “ There  should  be  a 
juste  milieu,  of  course.” 

“ A via  media,”  said  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  sarcastically, 
not  intending  to  wither  Miss  Beaufront,  but  Dr.  New- 
man, as  if  that  too  famous  divine  had  advocated  small 
religious  pills,  or  weak  homoeopathic  doses  of  sanctity. 

“ But,”  said  Miss  Beaufront,  “ the  blood-colonel 
stories  about  convents  are  all  nonsense.” 

“ Ah ! we  can  only  hope  so,”  said  Mr.  Auld-Baillie 
as  if  he  did  not  intend  to  indulge  in  any  such  hope. 

Meanwhile  my  other  neighbours  were  making  me 
quite  at  home,  and  I could  hardly  realize  that  I had 
never  set  foot  in  Severn  Court  till  that  evening.  The 


CH.  XXIX  ] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


199 


great  room  was  not  in  the  least  too  large  for  the 
numerous  company,  nor  the  many  servants  too  many 
for  them.  The  table  and  the  meal,  the  flowers  and 
plate,  the  dresses — all  seemed  to  belong  to  each  other. 
It  was  all  fine  and  grand  together,  and  as  simple  and 
natural  as  our  own  little  dinner  at  home  was  for  us 
there.  Every  one  was  talking,  no  one  talked  too  loud. 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie  might  wish  to  lecture,  if  Miss  Beau- 
front  would  let  him,  but  even  he  had  no  idea  of  being 
loud  and  offensive. 

I found  Lord  Bridgenorth  as  easy  to  be  intimate 
with  as  Perkin,  and  Lady  Hermione  much  easier  than 
Sylvia,  though  Sylvia  herself  was  pleasanter  (when 
we  met  again  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner)  than 
I had  ever  known  her.  Certainly  no  one  there  was 
so  pretty.  Sylvia’s  beauty  could  be  called  nothing 
but  prettiness,  but  it  was  prettiness  of  a kind  and 
degree  that  I never  saw  equalled.  Lady  Severn  was 
still  beautiful,  and  there  was  a Lady  Adelaide  de 
Bohun  who  was  quite  lovely ; Sylvia  was  neither ; but, 
though  there  were  at  least  a dozen  very  pretty  girls 
there,  none  of  them  could  be  thought  of  in  compari- 
son with  her.  Her  colouring  was  as  exquisite  as  that 
of  the  most  perfect  miniature,  her  little  features  were 
perfect,  her  nose  and  hair  alone  would  have  set  her 
above  any  of  the  rest;  so  would  her  tiny,  shell-pink 
ears,  and  her  mouth — though  it  was  too  small,  not 
for  beauty,  but  to  belong  to  any  one  one  would  wish 
to  be  loved  by.  Long  afterwards  I heard  crowds  of 
people  in  London  raving  about  a certain  Mrs.  Appleby 
because  of  her  nose  only;  how  well  I knew  that  nose, 
and  how  certain  I was  that  Mrs.  Appleby  had  no  more 
heart  in  her  than  a rose-petal.  If  you  ask  what  its 


200 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXIX 

form  was  I can  only  say  that  it  might  have  been 
“ Roman  ” and  wasn’t,  that  it  had  successfully  avoided 
the  risk  of  being  retrousse;  that  it  was  faultlessly 
refined,  and  that  its  refinement  had  nothing  on  earth 
to  do  with  the  feelings,  and  very  little  to  do  with 
the  mind,  everything  to  do  with  taste,  and  habit,  and 
a natural  aversion  from  what  was  vulgar,  without 
much  inward  aversion  from  what  might  be  thought 
coarse  enough  by  common  folk. 

But  Mrs.  Appleby  was  poisonously  vain — with  only 
a nose  to  go  on;  and  Sylvia  was  no  more  vain  than 
a peacock,  who  shows  the  public  his  fine  feathers 
without  thinking  of  the  public  at  all,  or  imagining  that 
they  are  of  his  own  making. 

Honestly  I doubt  if  Sylvia  knew  how  dazzlingly 
pretty  she  was;  so  far  as  she  thought  of  her  beauty 
at  all,  it  was  as  a lucky  asset  in  the  Auberon  family. 
She  was  singularly  impersonal. 

“ It  is,”  she  observed  to  me,  looking  around  her, 
from  the  corner  in  which  she  had  found  me,  “ the 
most  fortunate  thing  we  are  so  different.  If  we  were 
alike — especially  as  we  are  so  absurd  as  to  be  twins — 
there  would  be  only  one  and  a half  of  us.  No  one 
can  compare  us.” 

Of  that  I was  fully  aware,  not  that  she  meant  it  that 
way. 

“ And  if  they  did  ? ” I asked  stupidly. 

“ They  can’t.  What’s  the  use  of  putting  silly  cases  ? 
People  who  admire  me  wouldn’t  look  at  you.” 

“ I know  that,”  I put  in  savagely.  And  she  lifted 
one  pretty  eyebrow  with  reasonable  deprecation. 

“ And  there  are  plenty  of  people  who  would  prefer 
the  younger  Miss  Auberon,”  she  added  calmly  (she 


MONKSBRIDGE 


201 


CH.  XXIX] 

never  denied  the  existence  of  mental  obliquity  in  her 
fellow-creatures).  “ You  are  admired  already.  Mr. 
Auld-Baillie  would  require  to  be  told  that  I was  any- 
thing remarkable.  No  one  ever  knew  him  epris  before 
— is  it  epris  or  eprise  when  the  object  is  feminine?  I 
know  so  little  French.  It  is  quite  a triumph.  You 
know  quite  well  I shouldn’t  tell  you  if  I cared  whether 
you  thought  of  him  or  not — I don’t.  There’s  no 
hurry;  this  is  your  first  peep  into  the  real  world,  and 
you’re  here  just  to  enjoy  yourself.  Still  it’s  a tribute, 
and  people  will  think  all  the  more  of  you — you  see 
he  never  does  pay  attention  to  ladies,  especially  to  girls 
of  our  age — and  they  will  think  more  still  when  they 
see  you  don’t  care  a bit  whether  he  pays  attention  to 
you  or  lets  it  alone.” 

“ Yes,  I do  care.  I hope  he’ll  let  it  alone.” 


CHAPTER  XXX 


It  seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  Auld-Baillie’s  “ attentions  ” 
were  purely  imaginary;  but  Sylvia  had  no  imagination, 
wherever  she  thought  she  saw  something  there  was 
something  to  see;  and  within  twenty-four  hours  I 
began  to  perceive  she  was  right,  and  that  Mr.  Auld- 
Baillie  was  acquiring  a tiresome  habit  of  cropping 
up  in  my  neighbourhood.  Lady  Hermione  expressed 
it  in  a striking  but  disagreeable  metaphor. 

“ You  are,”  she  assured  me,  in  sympathetic  con- 
fidence, “ his  carcase,  and  wherever  you  are  there  is 
he  gathered  together.” 

Sometimes  the  Bishop  betrayed  the  same  tendency, 
but  it  was  not  for  my  own  sake. 

“ I hope,”  he  said  the  first  time,  “ that  you  left 
Mrs.  Auberon  well.” 

“Oh  yes!  Mamma  always  is  well.”  (He  looked 
needlessly  glad  to  hear  it.)  “So  is  Sylvia.”  (He 
seemed  less  impressed.) 

“ It  is  I,”  I observed,  “ who  catch  things.” 

He  looked  as  if  he  thought  it  an  unpleasant  habit, 
and  Lady  Hermione  (who  was  eavesdropping)  de- 
clared afterwards  that  it  sounded  like  insects. 

“ You  must,”  he  observed,  “ have  been  very  sorry 
to  leave  her.” 

“ Yes,  very.” 

“ I’m  sure  you  must  have  wished  she  were  coming 
with  you — a very  natural  wish.” 

He  looked  so  much  as  if  he  shared  it,  that  for  the 


202 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XXX] 


203 


moment  I thought  things  might  be  as  well  as  they 
were. 

“ Oh,  she  has  Perkin.  He’ll  look  after  her.” 

“ Perkin?” 

“ Yes,  my  brother  Perkin.” 

Perkin  was  evidently  a new  idea  to  the  Bishop,  and 
I think  he  regarded  him  as  superfluous,  so  I dwelt 
on  him. 

“ He  is  at  school,  but  only  in  the  town,  and  he 
comes  home  every  day.  He  will  look  after  Mamma,” 
I repeated,  hoping  that  Miss  Garboyle  would  do  as 
much  for  her  own  parent. 

“ An  excellent  son,  I’m  sure,”  said  his  lordship. 

“ Oh  yes ! He  is  to  be  a bishop.” 

The  one  before  me  stared,  and  I added  cheerfully — 

“ That  is  Sylvia’s  arrangement.” 

To  do  him  justice  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster 
laughed. 

“I  see!”  he  said.  “The  ambition  is  all  on  your 
sister’s  side.  One  doesn’t  much  like  to  hear  of  a 
boy’s  being  too  ambitious.” 

I was  rather  annoyed,  for  I didn’t  see  why  he  should 
think  it  naughty  ambition  in  Perkin  to  aim  at  the 
mark  he  had  hit  himself.  Perkin,  I was  sure,  was 
much  cleverer. 

“ Oh,”  I remarked,  “ Perkin  won’t  hear  of  being 
a bishop;  he  won’t  even  be  a clergyman.” 

I caught  Lady  Hermione’s  eye — that  is  to  say,  I 
saw  she  was  squinting  at  me  ferociously;  but  I really 
did  not  care  if  his  lordship  did  think  me  unpleasant. 
It  would  be  rather  a good  thing  if  he  thought  us  on 
the  whole  a disagreeable  family. 

“ Does  your  Mamma  wish  your  brother  to  take 


204  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxx 

Orders  ? ” the  Bishop  inquired  gravely.  “ She  would 
be  a good  judge  of  his  fitness.” 

“ Oh ! Mamma  would  think  him  fit  to  be  a Com- 
mander-in-Chief,  or  an  Admiral,”  I replied  with  tact- 
less rhetoric.  “ But  it’s  nothing  to  do  with  Mamma. 
It  is  Sylvia  who  is  disposer  supreme  in  our  family.” 

Lady  Hermione’s  eyes  came  out  of  their  squint 
with  abrupt  alarm,  and  the  Bishop  gave  a sort  of  wrig- 
gle down  his  shiny  black  back,  and  seemed  willing 
to  leave  me.  To  speed  him  I added — 

“ What  Sylvia  decides  is  what  takes  place  in  our 
family.” 

The  Bishop  did  leave  me,  but  I saw  him  turn  a 
meditative  eye  on  my  sister  (who  was  discussing  drains 
with  an  elderly  Viscount  in  the  middle  distance),  as 
if  there  might  be  something  in  it. 

“ You’re  an  abandoned  young  creature,”  Lady  Her- 
mione  declared,  closing  in  on  me. 

“ And  we  thought  you  all  meekness  and  innocence,” 
said  Lord  Bridgenorth. 

“ That’s  not  the  way  to  talk  to  Bishops,”  said  Lady 
Hermione. 

“ It  all  depends,”  I assured  her,  “ what  they’re  up 
to ; and  whether  you  want  to  make  a good  impression 
or  not.  I didn’t.” 

“ So  I gathered.  Is  it  to  make  him  report  unfa- 
vourably to  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  ? ” 

“ Ask  her,”  suggested  “ Briggy,”  “ no  questions, 
and  she’ll  tell  you  no  lies.” 

It  was  as  Sylvia  had  said.  When  the  other  gentle- 
men were  out  shooting  the  Bishop  was  in  the  midst  of 
us — and  so  was  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  who  never  shot,  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


205 


CH.  XXX] 

never  hunted,  but  carried  on  an  eager  correspondence 
with  people  who  were  arranging  meetings  for  escaped 
nuns  to  speak  at.  He  wras  much  in  request  as  chair- 
man on  such  occasions,  and  lived  in  a chronic  state 
of  hope  deferred  and  disappointment  repeated,  be- 
cause the  revelations  of  these  ladies  were  not,  as  Miss 
Beaufront  would  put  it,  sufficiently  “ blood-colonel.” 
I expressed  to  Lady  Hermione,  who  informed  me  of 
these  particulars,  my  satisfaction  that  he  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  quoting  these  ladies  to  me. 

“ Oh,”  she  said,  laughing,  “ he’s  the  soul  of  pro- 
priety in  private  life.  It’s  only  on  platforms  that  he 
likes  listening  to — to  that  sort  of  thing.” 

“What  sort  of  thing?” 

“ Well,  it’s  worse  than  any  smoking-room.  He’d 
never  sit  still  in  a smoking-room  while  the  sons  of 
Belial  were  telling  stories  a quarter  as  bad  as  those 
he  laps  up  like  milk  at  his  meetings.  I hadn’t  any 
idea  what  the  meetings  were  like,  and  asked  Mamma 
to  take  me  to  one  for  fun — last  May,  in  London.  I 
thought  she’d  have  a fit.  ‘ Hermione,’  she  said,  and 
she  always  calls  me  ‘ Glorum,’  unless  I’ve  done  some- 
thing bad,  * never  make  such  a suggestion  again,  or 
let  any  one  know  you  have  made  it  now.  They’re  sim- 
ply indecent,  Mr.  Auld-Baillie’s  meetings  are.’  All' 
the  same,  I told  Briggy,  and  he  got  as  red  as  a sun- 
set. It  seemed  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  had  asked  him  to  come 
to  one,  and  Uncle  Severn  was  nearly  as  much  horrified 
as  Mamma.” 

“ But,”  I said,  “ I thought  he  was  so  pious?  ” 

“ Oh  yes ! But  he  thinks  it  specially  pious  to  listen 
to  ghastly  things  that  are  supposed  to  hgve  happened 
in  convents ” 


206  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxx 

“ To  the  ladies  who  tell  them?  ” 

“ My  dear,  they’re  never  ladies.  I saw  a picture  of 
one  of  them  outside  Exeter  Hall,  on  a placard — the 
most  awful-looking  female:  ‘Sister  Emma,  the  Es- 
caped Abbess.’  Mamma  nearly  shook  me  for  looking 
at  it;  she  looked  like  a fat  barmaid.” 

“ How  do  you  know  ? ” 

“ I don’t ; she  looked  red,  and  fat,  and  drinky,  and 
greedy,  and  brazen,  and  hypocritical,  with  goggly, 
nasty  eyes,  and  a horrible  mouth,  and  ten  red  carrots 
crossed  on  her  lumpy  chest.  Mamma  said  she  was 
never  a nun  at  all,  only  a sort  of  servant  the  nuns 
had  taken  in  out  of  green-ness,  and  had  had  to  send 
off  for  making  love  to  the  milkman,  a married  man 
with  seventeen  children  all  under  six ” 

“ Hermione ! ” 

“ Well,  it  came  to  that.  Mamma  puts  things  dif- 
ferently. She  was  awful , anyway,  and  bamboozled 
Auld-Baillie  and  twenty  other  gooses  like  him,  and 
became  a sore  subject.  So  Sister  Caroline-Jane  or 
Augusta-Dumbella  came  into  favour,  though  only  an 
escaped  Prioress,  and  she  hadn’t  enough  to  tell,  and 
they  quarrelled  over  terms.  But  he  goes  on  and  on. 
I wouldn’t  say  all  this,  only  I see  he  bores  you  to 
frenzy.” 

Lady  Hermione  had  an  exaggerated  way  of  talking. 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie  did  not  bore  me  to  frenzy,  but  he 
bored  me  whenever  he  got  the  chance,  and  his  indif- 
ference to  outdoor  occupations  gave  him  too  many 
chances.  He  and  the  Bishop  were  supposed  to  shut 
themselves  up  to  write  letters  all  morning,  but  they 
seemed  to  require  little  breaks  during  which  one  or 
other,  or  both,  would  refresh  themselves  with  inter- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


20  7 


CH.  xxx] 

vals  of  female  society.  Miss  Beaufront  rather  en- 
joyed these  incursions  from  the  library,  and  was 
pretty  evenly  balanced  between  the  two  gentlemen, 
taste  inclining  her  slightly  to  the  M.P.  and  Squire, 
and  opportunity  throwing  the  Bishop  more  in  her 
power,  for  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  had  a certain  dexterity 
in  avoiding  her.  Still  I was  aware  that  his  lordship, 
when  he  could,  rather  preferred  talking  to  me  about 
my  mother  than  being  talked  to  by  Miss  Beaufront 
about  his  daughter. 

After  luncheon  these  two  gentlemen  would  always 
walk  or  drive  with  us,  and  I warmly  agreed  with 
Lady  Hermione’s  dictum  that  all  old  women  should 
wear  petticoats  as  well  as  aprons,  and  not  impose 
on  the  public  in  pepper-and-salt  trousers  or  petticoats 
and  black  gaiters. 

One  evening,  while  we  were  dressing  for  dinner, 
Sylvia,  after  looking  at  me  meditatively  for  a moment 
or  two,  said — 

“ I don’t  think  you  are  going  to  care  much  for  Mr. 
Auld-Baillie ” 

“ Certainly  not,”  I interrupted  with  a little 
warmth. 

“ Oh,  it’s  all  right.  There’s  no  necessity.  No  doubt 
he  is  quite  in  earnest,  and  it  would  be  a good  match ; 
but  you’ve  only  just  come  to  the  sea,  and  there  are 
better  fish  in  it.  I merely  alluded  to  it  as  a matter 
of  business.” 

“ A matter  of  business!  ” 

“ Yes.  I’m  not  going  to  try  and  make  you  fall  in 
love  with  him;  don’t  be  anxious.  But  there’s  a mat- 
ter of  business.  Do  you  remember  a portrait  we  have, 
on  panel,  of  Bishop  Latimer?” 


208  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxx 

“The  burnt  man?  Yes,  I remember  it,  it’s  in  the 
library.” 

“ Yes.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  is  some  sort 
of  descendant — collateral,  I think — of  that  Bishop. 
And  the  portrait  belonged  to  an  aunt  of  his,  who  had 
no  business  to  sell  it,  but  she  did — at  least,  it  was 
sold  among  her  other  things,  when  she  died,  at  Chris- 
ties’ or  somewhere.  And  he  went  to  bid  for  it,  but 
Uncle  Stapleton  was  there  too,  buying  china  and 
things;  and,  because  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  wanted  it,  he 
bid  him  up,  for  Uncle  Stapleton  couldn’t  stand  him; 
and  Uncle  Stapleton  got  the  picture  for  seventeen 
hundred  guineas.  It’s  by  some  great  artist;  Holbein, 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie  thinks.  He  wants  it  still,  and  was 
asking  me  questions  about  it:  you  know  everything 
at  Cross  Place  is  Mamma’s  to  do  what  she  likes  with. 
She  would  let  him  have  it  if  I told  her  to  do  so;  and 
I am  sure  he  would  be  delighted  if  I said  he  might 
have  it  for  fifteen  hundred  pounds — that  would  be  a 
good  deal  less  than  he  bid  for  it.  We  none  of  us  care 
a bit  about  the  portrait,  and  fifteen  hundred  pounds 
would  be  a godsend  to  Mamma,  especially  just  now. 
My  marriage  will  cost  a lot,  and,  of  course,  that  must 
be  our  affair.  Lady  Monksbridge  has  begged  me  to 
let  her  give  me  cheques,  for  she  knows  all  this  going 
about  costs  some  money — you  know  I do  it  first  and 
foremost  for  Hampden’s  sake;  that  was  one  reason 
why  I did  not  choose  to  allow  the  marriage  to  take 
place  at  once;  we  have  not  been  engaged  many  weeks, 
and  see  how  much  it  has  done  for  him  already!  He 
would  never  have  been  here,  nor  at  Caerleon,  nor  at 
the  Closeboroughs’,  nor  at  the  Duke  of  Tilbury’s,  if 
he  had  not  been  engaged  to  me.  I have  launched  him 


MONKSBRIDGE 


209 


CH.  XXX] 

already.  And  if  I had  married  him  at  once  it  would 
have  been  quite  different,  quite;  and  there  would  only 
have  been  you  for  bridesmaid — now  you  will  be  one 
of  eight,  and  the  other  seven — but  we  needn’t  talk  of 
that  now.  As  I was  saying,  it  all  costs  money,  this 
going  about;  so  will  the  wedding  and  my  trousseau; 
if  Mamma  had  this  fifteen  hundred  pounds  it  would 
be  a godsend.  I would  ask  her  to  let  three  hundred  be 
my  marriage  portion,  and  give  it  me  at  once;  I should 
pay  for  the  wedding  and  my  trousseau,  and  this  going 
about,  out  of  it.  The  other  twelve  she  would  invest 
(and  it  would  add  sixty  pounds  a year  to  her  in- 
come) ; at  her  death  she  would  leave  it  to  you  and 
Perkin.  I shouldn’t  want  any  then,  and,  besides,  I 
should  have  had  my  share  at  once.  What  do  you 
think?  Of  course,  I should  not  think  of  it,  if  you 
really  meant  anything  about  Mr.  Auld-Baillie.” 

“ That  I don’t.  But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with 
it?” 

“ Everything.  If  you  were  going  to  marry  him  I 
should  not  dream  of  having  anything  about  money 
between  us.  It  would  be  as  bad  as  if  I let  Lady 
Monksbridge  give  me  cheques.  I saw  you  didn’t  mean 
to  marry  him — all  the  same,  he  will  propose ” 

“ No,  he  won’t,”  I declared  vehemently.  “ I should 
hate  him  to.” 

“ But  he  will;  and  it  will  be  just  as  well.  I could 
Stop  him,  if  it  was  me,  but  you  can’t,  and  it  will  do  no 
harm  at  all.  He  won’t  break  his  heart,  but  he  will  be 
upset;  he’s  as  vain  as  a girl,  in  spite  of  his  demure- 
ness, and  very  obstinate;  it  will  do  him  great  good, 
and  us  too.  Of  course,  we  shall  not  say  he  has  pro- 
posed, nor  will  he;  but  every  one  will  know,  and  it 


210 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXX 

will  show  these  people  that  the  Auberons  are  not  to  be 
got  for  the  mere  asking.  On  the  whole  I’m  glad  you 
don’t  want  him.” 

I never  could  listen  to  my  sister,  on  such  occasions 
as  these,  without  staring  at  her;  her  mind  moved  on 
lines  above  mine,  and  I could  only  watch  her  calm 
progression  in  astonied  silence,  which  suited  her 
very  well,  as  she  desired  neither  comment  nor  ap- 
plause; my  comments  would  be  jejune,  and,  for 
applause,  her  own  well-padded  conscience  satisfied  her. 
She  looked  at  me  again,  with  unimpassioned  criticism. 

“ To  think,”  she  said,  with  all  her  singular  candour, 
“ that  once  I should  have  thought  Mr.  Rumble  good 
enough  for  my  sister ! I must  say  it  was  very  good  of 
you  not  to  mind ” 

“I  never  had  the  least  idea!” 

“ No?  You  never  could  see  two  inches  before  you, 
or  half  an  inch  before  me.  I knew  he  was  well-off, 
and  likely  to  get  preferment  slowly.  (By  the  way, 
you  needn’t  go  on  bothering  yourself  with  that  Sun- 
day-school when  we  go  back.)  But  that’s  all  finished; 
poor  little  Monksbridge ! We  hardly  belong  there  any 
more.  . . . We’re  going  to  the  Solways’  next  month, 
and  you  can  have  some  new  dresses  (I’ll  give  them 
you  out  of  my  three  hundred).  By  that  time  you’ll 
be  the  only  girl  who  ever  had  the  chance  of  being 
Mrs.  Auld-Baillie  of  Auld  Crankie  Castle,  and  who 
has  refused  it!  It  is  so  fortunate  we  are  so  differ- 
ent! Without  being  in  the  least  like  me,  you  will 
have  done  as  much,  in  a different  way,  for  the  Au- 
berons as  I have.” 

For  a moment  I thought  she  was  going  to  kiss  me, 
but  she  merely  adjusted  my  sash,  and  the  bell  rang. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


When  was  Sylvia  wrong?  She  was  right,  at  all 
events,  about  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  proposing,  though  how 
on  earth  it  came  about  I never  could  understand.  If 
my  own  impressions  were  worth  anything  (which  I 
am  far  from  asserting)  I should  say  it  was  over  a 
sketch  of  his  East  Lodge- — a sketch  by  his  sister  (now 
in  heaven)  who  had  passed  through  this  world  en 
route,  apparently  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  make 
sketches  of  Auld  Crankie  Castle,  from  the  south,  west 
and  east — they  utterly  ignored  the  north,  it  being 
somewhat  over-far  in  that  direction  as  a mere  mat- 
ter of  latitude.  Also  she  had  left  sketches  of  Fenny 
Baillie  (for  my  squire  had  a seat  in  Lincolnshire,  too) 
with  a good  deal  of  sky  in  them,  and  a good  deal  of 
foreground,  and  a background  that  looked  as  if  it 
rather  wanted  a leg-up.  But  the  late  Miss  Elspeth 
Auld-Baillie’s  view  of  the  East  Lodge  to  Auld  Crankie 
Castle  was  her  piece  de  resistance;  it  was  so  baronial 
that  the  views  of  the  actual  castle  came,  subsequently, 
almost  as  an  anticlimax.  An  outside  public  that  saw 
only  that  lodge  could  hardly  fail  of  conceiving  ideas 
of  the  castle  vague  and  vast.  It  looked  as  if  dowager 
countesses  would  have  esteemed  it  a privilege  to  reside 
in  it.  It  frowned  and  ogled,  and  bristled,  and  elbowed 
itself  out  in  flanking  turrets,  and  had  machicolations 
(for  the  convenience  of  visitors  who  liked  to  have  hot 
porridge  poured  down  the  nape  of  their  necks)  and 


21 1 


212  MONKSBRIDGL  [ch.  xxxi 

gates  that  yawned  so  widely  that  I wanted  to  yawn 
too. 

But  those  gates  gave  entrance  to  a road,  and  the 
road  led  to  a Home  (where  religion  has  its  legitimate 
operation),  and  what  is  a Home  without  a mistress? 
Thus  it  was  that  (as  I imagine)  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  ar- 
rived at  his  point.  Anyway  he  arrived;  and  he  was 
there  before  I had  got  beyond  the  lodge.  Once  there 
it  was  hard  to  get  him  out  again.  He  was  fond  of 
his  castle,  and  obstinately  determined  to  make  me 
fond  of  it  too.  It  was  not  only  a castle,  but  it  had  a 
history  (I  understood  him  to  say  that  two  Kings  of 
Scotland  had  been  murdered  in  it,  but  perhaps  one 
of  them  was  only  born  there),  and  its  owners  had 
always  been  fine  rebellious  people,  who  held  their 
heads  up  and  bothered  their  Sovereigns,  so  that  they 
were  much  looked  on.  That  was  in  Pre-Hanoverian 
times ; during  the  eighteenth  century  they  had  been  on 
the  Government  side,  against  the  clans,  and  the  exiled 
royal  family.  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  made  love  with  a sort 
of  pious  worldliness,  letting  me  see  that  Auld  Crankie 
(in  Scotland  he  was  not  called  Mr.  Auld-Baillie)  was 
able  to  make  his  wife  somebody  of  importance;  he 
did  not  say  that  I should  be  the  first  untitled  mistress 
the  castle  had  owned  for  generations,  but  he  men- 
tioned his  mother,  Lady  Grissel,  and  his  grandmother, 
Lady  Jean,  and  incidentally  alluded  to  the  feud  be- 
tween his  family  and  that  of  the  Duke  of  Staffa — 
only  partially  healed  by  his  great-grandfather’s  mar- 
riage with  His  Grace’s  eleventh  daughter,  Lady  Ali- 
son; and  it  appeared  that  his  great-great-grandfather’s 
wife  had  been  that  Lady  Christian  Auld-Baillie  who 
kissed  every  man  on  the  Auld  Crankie  lands  willing 


MONKSBRIDGE 


213 


CH.  XXXl] 

to  take  arms  against  Charles  Edward  in  ’45.  In  fact, 
he  dwelt  so  long  and  lovingly  on  birth  and  family  that 
I was  convinced  Sylvia  had  made  a mistake,  and  in- 
wardly thanked  Heaven  I had  not  refused  him  before 
he  asked  me.  But  with  a pious  jump  he  suddenly 
turned  from  these  high  names,  and  made  it  plain  that 
he  wished  to  alter  mine;  that  domestic,  simple  happi- 
ness was  his  object,  and  that  together  we  were  to 
attain  it  in  the  practice  of  solid  religion  in  a not  un- 
worthy Home — to  wit,  Auld  Crankie  Castle. 

Sylvia  was  not  mistaken,  nor  was  she  wrong  about 
his  being  upset.  He  reddened  at  the  first  word  of 
refusal,  and  almost  argued;  he  was  obstinate,  and 
unwilling  to  be  convinced  that  his  serious  offer  was  not 
to  be  accepted.  He  waved  the  East  Lodge  rhetorically 
in  his  gentlemanly  hand,  as  if  it  had  been  the  notes  of 
a speech,  and  we  were  in  the  House  of  Commons.  He 
spoke  of  the  essentials  of  a happy  marriage,  and  men- 
tioned duty  in  connection  with  them,  clearly  implying 
that  mine  was  to  be  Mrs.  Auld-Baillie  of  Auld  Crankie 
Castle. 

“ Perhaps,”  he  admitted,  “ I have  spoken  too 
soon ” 

“ Yes,”  said  I,  with  all  my  habitual  grace  and  tact. 
“ Yes.  Any  time  would  be  too  soon ” 

And  if  he  got  redder,  so  did  I. 

“ I have  not  known  you  long,”  he  conceded  (but 
stiffly),  “ and  perhaps  I should  have  waited.  Still,  we 
have  been  much  together — and  I confess  I have  dis- 
cerned till  now,  no  repugnance.” 

“ Repugnance ! No.  But  I don’t  want  to  marry 
anybody.” 

‘^Then  there  is  no  one  else;  no  counter ” He 


214  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxi 

was  going  to  say  “ attraction,”  but  changed  his  word 
and  said  “ no  prior  attachment  ? ” 

“ Of  course  not,”  I declared,  and  it  seemed  to  mol- 
lify him,  though  I only  meant  that  I had  never  thought 
in  the  least  about  getting  married.  It  mollified  him 
too  much,  and  he  brisked  up. 

“ At  home  I only  used  to  see  Perkin’s  schoolfel- 
lows,” I explained. 

“ Oh,  and  Eustace  de  Braose,  and  perhaps  Lord 
Chevronel;  and  there  was  nothing  of  that  sort — 
naturally  ? ” 

He  smiled.  “Well,  well,”  said  he  (like  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, more  cheerfully).  “You  are  very  young.  It 
is  a new  idea  to  you.  / can’t  regret  it.  New  ideas  are 

often  unpleasant  at  first ” 

“ Very,”  I agreed,  too  heartily. 

“Well,  well”  (less  cheerfully),  “but  as  they  be- 
come more  familiar  they  become  more  agreeable.” 

I shook  my  head,  and  the  gesture  certainly  implied 
that  he  would  not  become  more  agreeable  by  increased 
familiarity.  He  flushed  again,  and  slightly  elevated 
the  East  Lodge,  as  though  to  deprecate  interruption. 

“ I must  give  you  time,”  he  went  on.  “ You  must 
forget  my  suddenness  (I  did  not  think  it  too  sudden — 
nor  did  the  Bishop) , but  we  were  wrong.  My  friend 
the  Bishop,  in  his  zeal  for  a suitable  Christian  mar- 
riage, perhaps  encouraged  me  too  warmly;  he  per- 
ceived my  preference  at  an  early  date  and  showed 
his  strong  approval — he  thinks  highly  of  your 
family.” 

“ Of  me,  or  of  Sylvia? — he  hasn’t  seen  Perkin.” 
“No;  but  he  knows  your  mother;  and  I am  sure 
from  his  report  that  I can  rely  upon  her  strong  sense 


ch.  xxxi]  MONKSBRIDGE  215 

of  fitness  and  duty.  Let  us  forget  that  I have  spoken, 
if  I have  spoken  too  soon.” 

“ Oh  yes.  Pray  do  forget  it.  That  will  be  quite  the 
best  thing,”  said  I,  eagerly.  But  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was 
not  so  pleased  as  he  should  have  been. 

“ /,”  he  observed,  “ cannot  forget  it;  nor  wish  to.” 

“ Oh,  please  try.  It’s  so  easy  to  forget  things  even 
when  one  doesn’t  try.” 

“ My  dear  Miss  Auberon,  you  are  very  young. 
These  things  are  not  of  a nature  to  be  forgotten.  I 
merely  meant  let  us  go  on  as  if  I had  not  yet  spoken — 
not  yet.  And  in  the  meantime  you  will  see  your 
excellent  mother;  her  opinion  (her  mature  judgment) 
may,  must,  have  weight,  with  so  dutiful  a daughter. 
The  Bishop  says  nothing  can  bear  a higher  testimony 
to  the  excellence  of  the  mother  than  the  affectionate 
devotion  of  her  daughters.” 

“ Oh,  but  he  doesn’t  know  anything  about  us  at 
all.  Of  course,  Mamma  is  a perfect  darling,  but  she’s 
not  like  that  a bit.  She  never  talks  to  us  (to  Perkin 
and  me)  about  our  duty  and  all  that — she  only  says 
we  had  much  better  do  what  Sylvia  says.  We’re  not 
dutiful  daughters — we  are  devoted  to  her — Sylvia  is 
wonderfully  nice  to  her — but  she  just  does  what  Syl- 
via says,  and  lets  me  do  what  I like  so  long  as  Sylvia 
doesn’t  mind.” 

I could  see  that  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was  not  inatten- 
tive, he  was  (as  Perkin  would  have  said)  sucking  it 
all  in,  and  I think  he  began  to  discern  a new  line  of 
tactics.  He  hadn’t  hitherto  quite  realized  Sylvia.  In 
fact,  Lady  Hermione  gave  me  to  understand,  he  had 
once  slightly  snubbed  my  sister.  He  became  less  red 
and  more  thoughtful,  and  he  softly  patted  the  East 


2l6 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXXI 


Lodge  against  the  lower  portion  of  his  waistcoat  with 
reviving  complacence.  Unfortunately  my  frankness 
had  put  a potent  weapon  in  his  hands,  and  had,  as  I 
presently  found,  converted  an  all-powerful  ally  into 
a determined  foe.  But  for  the  moment  I could  only 
feel  it  a relief  that  he  passed  from  more  personal 
and  heated  discussions  to  calm  eulogy  of  the  Bishop 
and  Rood  Palace. 

“ It  is  pleasant  to  think,”  he  said,  “ that  what  was 
once  a stronghold  of  monachism  is  now  an  Evangelical 
Home;  where  once  an  Abbot  ruled,  there  lives  a Chris- 
tian pastor  with  the  keenest  relish  for  domestic  joys.” 

For  my  part  I should  not  have  minded  if  the  Abbot 
had  been  there  still. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


“ Of  course,”  Sylvia  had  said,  “ we  shall  tell  no  one,” 
and  / did  not  even  tell  her.  But  she  found  out,  and 
she  could  not  have  found  out  unless  some  one  had 
known;  she  was  right  again — every  one  knew,  and  I 
think  Miss  Beaufront  was  the  universal  informant, 
and  that  the  Bishop  had  let  on  to  her.  He  was  a bit 
of  a gossip,  and  it  did  not  displease  him  that  people 
should  be  aware  that  the  Auberon  family  in  general 
were  receiving  unexceptionable  offers.  To  me  Miss 
Beaufront  was  a little  tart,  but  approving  all  the 
same.  It  was,  she  evidently  thought,  silly  of  Mr.  Auld- 
Baillie  to  propose  to  me,  but  very  sensible  of  me  to 
refuse  him;  and  all  her  tartness  was  mingled  with  an 
increased  respect.  Poor  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  was  the  only 
person  at  Severn  Court  who  had  not  the  least  idea 
that  every  one  knew  what  had  happened.  No  one, 
except  Lady  Hermione,  said  anything  to  me,  but  even 
Mr.  Monk  treated  me  with  a certain  added  consid- 
eration; Lord  and  Lady  Severn,  who  never  suspected 
they  were  showing  it,  did  show  that  they  thought  more 
of  the  Auberons  because  the  most  insignificant  of  them 
had  not  snapped  at  a rich  and  highly  respectable  suitor. 
So,  it  appeared,  did  Lady  Agincourt. 

“ Mamma,”  Lady  Hermione  confided  to  me,  “ saw 
it  all  from  the  first;  and  she  wondered  how  it  would 
be.  Of  course,  your  sister  has  you  under  her  thumb 
— she’s  too  clever  for  us  poor  creatures.” 

“ Sylvia,”  I declared  angrily,  “ * saw  it  all,’  as  you 
217 


2l8 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXXII 


call  it,  though  I didn’t  believe  her — and  she  didn’t 
want'it  in  the  least.  If  you  and  I are  to  quarrel,  there’s 
your  subject.  It  makes  me  mad  to  hear  the  way  you 
talk  about  her.” 

“ Who  ? I never  said  black  or  white  about  her 
before.” 

“You’re  all  the  same!  You  talk  about  her  being 
clever,  and  she  is  much  cleverer  than  any  of  you ” 

“ Don’t  I say  so?  ” 

“Yes;  and  you  mean  to  be  nasty.  You’re  just 
like  old  Mrs.  de  Braose — she  seems  to  bow  down 
before  Sylvia,  and  calls  her  clever  just  in  your 
way.” 

“ Well,  she’s  a clever  old  villain  herself.  If  she  says 

so My  dear  Marjory,  do  keep  your  temper.  We 

can  quarrel  if  you  like,  but  what’s  the  good?  Sylvia 
is  ten  times  prettier  than  you,  or  any  of  us;  and  a 
hundred  times  wiser  (in  her  generation)  than  you. 
But  it  isn’t  your  generation;  and  you  can  thank  God 
for  it.  She  is  a great  lady,  and  Mr.  Monk  will  get 
the  good  of  it;  but  you  don’t  want  to  be  a great  lady, 
and  she  wants  to  make  you  one.  God  made  you  a 
lady,  and  if  she  spoils  you  I shall  hate  her,  and  be  cross 
with  you.  ‘ Fax  is  fax,’  as  a nursemaid  of  ours  used 
to  say,  and  you  needn’t  bite  me  if  I drag  them  out 
and  laugh  at  them.  She’ll  be  the  new  Lady  Monks- 
bridge — and  the  first,  to  all  intents  and  purposes;  and 
we  shall  all  succumb  to  her.  But  we  can’t  spare  you 
to  her;  we  just  want  Marjory  Auberon — to  like  her 
and  keep  her.  And  I only  wish  I knew  Perkin.  Do 
you  think  I don’t  understand  you  all  by  now  ? When 
you  talk  to  me  and  Briggy  about  Perkin  and  your 
mother  and  Cross  Place  and  Hubert  Byrne,  don’t  you 


CH.  XXXIl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


219 


suppose  we  see  them  all  much  better  than  in  a picture  ? 
I just  wish  I knew  Perkin.  I’m  on  his  side,  so’s 
Briggy,  and  we’d  encourage  him:  he  needs  it,  poor 
boy!  He’s  the  nicest  of  you  all — oh,  don’t  interrupt. 
I met  your  mother  at  Caerleon,  and  she  is  charming — - 
but  Sylvia  intends  to  make  her  share  the  Lowminster 
throne  and  mitre,  and  she’ll  do  exactly  what  Sylvia 
chooses.  What’s  the  use  of  looking  savage?  You 
know  it’s  true.  If  Perkin  could  go  about  with  your 
mother  and  you,  he  might  look  after  you  both,  but  you 
alone  couldn’t  look  after  your  mother  (you’re  too 
weak)  ; and  besides,  Miss.  Sylvia  will  only  take  one  of 
you  with  her  at  a time,  and  when  it’s  your  mother’s 
turn  you’ll  be  left  safe  at  home.  Now  I’ve  had  my 
say,  and  I feel  better.  I’ve  been  smouldering  for  five 
days,  and  getting  more  and  more  anxious.  Now  that 
old  maid  in  breeches  has  proposed,  and  you’ve  said 
you’d  rather  not,  I breathe  freely.” 

“ I don’t  care  how  you  breathe,”  I said  fiercely. 
“ And  I think  you’re  a horrid  girl.  What  sort  of  girl 
must  you  think  me,  to  think  I’ll  stand  still  and  let  you 
talk  like  that  of  my  sister?  And,  as  it  happens,  you 
have  been  quite  wrong — Sylvia  didn’t  want  me  to  ac- 
cept him.” 

“ That,”  said  Hermione,  quite  unmoved  by  my 
angry  recriminations,  “ is  the  odd  part  of  it.  I won- 
der  ” 

“ What  do  you  wonder  ? ” I demanded  hotly. 

“ I wonder  if  she  knows  that  he  will  be  an  Earl? 
She  seems  to  know  almost  everything,  but  that  may 
have  escaped  her.  His  grandfather  married  Lady 
Jean  Macleod,  the  Duke  of  Iona’s  only  daughter;  she 
had  only  one  brother,  and  he  had  only  one  son.  The 


220 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxii 

present  Duke  has  no  children  at  all.  He’s  about  ninety, 
and  very  shaky.  When  he  dies  there’ll  be  an  end  of 
the  Dukedom,  but  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  will  be  Earl  of 
Inverchlory.  On  the  whole,  I am  pretty  sure  she 
didn’t  know  it.” 

And,  alas ! I felt  pretty  sure  of  it  too — and  my  face 
betrayed  it.  But  I was  thankful  she  hadn’t  known  it, 
though  my  spirit  misgave  me  when  I considered  how 
certain  she  was  to  find  out. 

“ Briggy,  come  here,”  Lady  Hermione  called  out, 
as  that  youth  peeped  into  the  little  yellow  morning 
room  (not  more  than  forty  feet  square)  where  this 
troubled  colloquy  had  taken  place.  “ Marjory  is  try- 
ing to  slay  me,  and  I’d  as  lief  have  you  to  defend  me 
as  any  one.” 

“ She’s  been  misbehaving?”  the  boy  said,  glancing 
at  her  and  me  with  a kind  little  smile  of  deprecation. 
I neither  smiled  nor  spoke,  and  he  looked  more  trou- 
bled. “ She  does  like  you  so,”  he  said  to  me,  with  such 
an  earnest  simplicity  that  I could  only  think  what  a 
nice  lad  it  was.  His  shining  blue  eyes  travelled  to 
and  fro  between  her  half-wilful  face  and  my  resentful 
one  with  an  expression  more  wistful  than  puzzled. 
“ Glorum,”  he  said,  “ you  often  say  you’d  like  to  have 
been  a boy — boys  don’t  quarrel.” 

“ I didn’t  want  to  quarrel — I haven’t  quarrelled 
now.” 

“ No,  but  you’ve  been  saying  things.  Miss  Au- 
be ron ” 

“Call  her  Marjory!”  said  Hermione.  “You  al- 
ways do  behind  her  back.  At  least,  we  call  you  ‘ Mug- 
gles  ’ — we’ve  picked  up  all  Perkin’s  expressions.”  And 
Hermione  turned  so  queer  and  kind  a face  to  me,  that 


ch.  xxxii]  MONKSBRIDGE  221 

I knew  Briggy  would  think  me  sulky  if  I resisted  it, 
and  somehow  I felt  sure  he  would  always  be  right. 

I grinned,  and  felt  (Lord  knows  why)  lumpy  about 
the  throat. 

“We’re  all  for  Perkin,”  said  Briggy.  How  diplo- 
matic is  plain  simplicity! 

“ I told  her  so,  that’s  what  she  flew  out  about.” 

But  Briggy  knew  better.  “ You’ll  never  be  a boy, 
Glorum,”  he  said,  shaking  his  head;  and  I’m  sure  he 
knew  as  well  as  if  he’d  heard  it  all  what  I had  flown 
out  about.  “ But,  Marjory,  she’s  a good  chum,  and 
we  wanted  you  to  be  one  of  us  three.  Do  let  us.” 
His  English  was  not  lucid,  but  he  was;  and  I liked 
them  both  better  than  anybody  I knew,  except  Per- 
kin. They  were  not  unlike  Perkin  in  some  ways. 
As  what  comes  into  my  mind,  generally  comes  out,  I 
said — with  a gesture  intended  to  express  oblivion 
of  the  past,  but  rather  like  that  of  a laconic  diner 
waving  away  an  entree  he  doesn’t  want — 

“ I wish  Perkin  was  here ! At  least,  I don’t,  be- 
cause he  wouldn’t  like  it  at  all.” 

“ That’s  civil ! ” said  Briggy. 

“ I’m  all  for  Perkin,”  said  Hermione,  with  too  much 
meaning. 

“ You  mean ” I began,  with  some  return  of 

warmth. 

“ I mean  just  what  you  say — that  he  would  not  like 
it  a bit.  He  has  too  much  sense.” 

“ Oh,”  said  I,  “if  you  think  I wanted  to  come, 

you’re  just  mistaken;  it  was ” 

“ Not  Sylvia,  of  course,”  observed  Hermione,  coolly. 
“Glorum!  You’re  the  most  hopeless  person  to  set 
up  for  being  a boy,”  our  peacemaker  interrupted; 


222 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxii 

like  all  efficient  peacemakers,  he  thoroughly  under- 
stood his  own  weapons. 

She  gave  a little  disconcerted  kick,  and  held  her 
tongue. 

“ No,”  I hurried  on,  “ I didn’t  want  to  come;  but  I 
don’t  mind  it  now  I’m  here — except  for ” 

“ Mr.  Auld-Baillie,”  suggested  Hermione ; and  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  I nodded,  though  I didn’t  wag 
my  head  at  all. 

“ Now  that’s  over ” I went  on,  but  she  chipped 

in  again. 

“Over!  Just  begun,  you  mean.  However,  you’ve 
begun  well.  Otherwise,  I should  say,  you  would  have 
been  better  at  home.” 

“ Glorum ! ” 

“ Well,  she  would.  It’s  no  use  Gloruming.  I don’t 
see  the  good  of  repenting  till  you’ve  done  all  you 
want,  and  I want  to  set  clearly  before  her  the  evils 
of  going  a duke-ing  (dear  Perkin!)  that  she  may  not 
fall  alive  into  the  pits  that  some  (No!  no!  don’t  leap 
up;  I never  said  ‘ Sylvia  ’)  have  digged  for  her.” 

I did  leap,  and  Briggy  leapt  too;  I left  her  to  his 
just  reproaches  and  fled  (through  the  hall,  where  I 
saw  Sylvia,  without  Mr.  Monk,  and  with  Mr.  Auld- 
Baillie)  upstairs  to  our  own  bedroom.  And  all  the 
time  I heard  Perkin  declaring,  traitorously,  that  Her- 
mione was  right. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


Two  important  telegrams  reached  Severn  Court  that 
very  afternoon.  One  brought  word  that  a duke  was 
dead,  and  one  that  a lord  was  very  ill.  The  Duke  was 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie’s  cousin;  the  Lord  was  Mr.  Monk’s 
father.  The  telegrams  arrived  together  just  before 
tea-time,  and  all  Severn  Court  knew  of  them  at  once. 
Both  noblemen  had  had  a “ stroke  ” ; but  Miss  Beau- 
front,  who  knew  all  about  Dukes,  assured  the  Bishop 
that  it  was  his  grace’s  fifth,  and  seemed  almost  sur- 
prised it  had  killed  him — the  four  others  having 
failed. 

“ He  was,  I believe,  a very  worthy  man,”  said  the 
Bishop,  patting  his  apron  with  a dolorous  complacence. 
He  had  always  liked  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  and  it  is  well 
to  have  Evangelical  Earls.  “ He  has  been  taken  in 
the  fulness  of  time.” 

He  bent  and  stroked  his  calves,  which  had  a certain 
fulness  too. 

“ Oh  yes,”  said  Miss  Beaufront.  “ As  to  Lord 
Thingummy,  I don’t  know.  It  may  be  his  first.  Not 
an  old  man,  I fancy.” 

The  Bishop  shook  his  head,  with  a less  complacent 
dolour. 

“ About  fifty-five,  I hear,”  he  said.  He  was  not 
turned  fifty-six  himself. 

“ Dear  me ! Quite  in  the  prime  of  life,”  said  Miss 
Beaufront;  “ he  may  live  to  have  a dozen.” 

223 


224  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiii 

“A  dozen?”  queried  the  Bishop,  thinking  of  his 
one  ewe-lamb. 

“ Strokes.  But  that  Miss  Auberon  is  so  lucky — I 
doubt  it’ll  be  his  first  and  last.”  Then,  suddenly  espy- 
ing me,  in  dubious  neighbourhood,  she  said : “ My 
dear!  A terrible  blow  for  your  sister!” 

At  that  moment  I saw  Sylvia  enter  the  hall,  in  which 
there  was  only  the  light  of  two  great  log  fires — one 
at  each  end  of  it ; she  made  a sign  to  me,  and  I went 
over  to  her. 

“ Come  up  to  our  room,”  she  said,  and  we  went 
up  together;  the  curtains  were  drawn  close,  and  the 
room  was  full  of  warm  firelight.  We  stood  together 
on  the  rug,  and  she  leant  one  elbow  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  looking  down  gravely  into  the  fire.  “ I have 
seen  Hampden,”  she  said,  “ and  he  thinks  his  father 
must  be — he  seems  to  have  very  little  hope.”  She  was 
pale,  and  shivered  as  she  spoke. 

“ It  must  be  a horrible  shock  to  him,”  I said. 

“ Yes.  He  is  a devoted  son.  I think  he  cared 
most  for  his  mother ; but  he  will  feel  his  father’s  death 
very  much.  He  is  going  at  once:  he  and  Mr.  Auld- 
Baillie  are  going  together.  There  is  a train  to  Dul- 
church  at  half-past  five,  and  they  will  travel  that  far 
together;  then  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  can  catch  the  North 
express,  but  there  is  no  quick  train  to  Monksbridge 
till  after  eight.  I advised  Hampden  to  take  a spe- 
cial, and  he  is  going  to  do  so.” 

All  this  she  said  very  gravely,  and  it  was  easy 
to  see  that  the  news  had  really  moved  her.  The  idea 
of  death,  brought  thus  near  ourselves,  shocked  and 
almost  frightened  her. 


ch.  xxxm]  MONKSBRIDGE  225 

For  a few  minutes  we  said  nothing;  then  she  sat 
down  and  went  on  thoughtfully — 

“ I am  considering  exactly  how  we  ought  to  behave. 
We  must  be  very  careful;  all  these  people  will  watch 
us.  Our  position  is  peculiar : though  you  refused  him, 
Mr.  Auld-Baillie  proposed  to  you  to-day,  and  he  will 
not  accept  your  refusal  as  final.” 

“ But,  Sylvia,  it  was  final ; I can’t  see  what  this  has 
to  do  with  it.  Of  course  I am  very  sorry  that  he  has 
had  this  sad  news,  so  must  every  one  in  the  house  be; 
but  it  doesn’t  concern  me  more  than  any  one  else  here.” 

“ Yes,  it  does.  Every  one  will  think  it  does.  They 
all  know  he  wants  to  marry  you,  and ” 

“ If  they  do  know  that,  they  know  that  I don’t 
want  to  marry  him.  Does  any  one  on  earth  imagine 
that  a girl  is  bound  to  change  her  mind  because  the 
man  she  has  just  refused  has  lost  a cousin?  That’s 
nonsense.” 

“Yes,  that’s  nonsense;  but  that’s  what  you  say. 
They  will  watch  you  to  see  how  you  behave.  That 
isn’t  nonsense.” 

Then,  seeing  I was  becoming  rebellious,  she  turned 
quickly  to  another  consideration. 

“ I,  at  all  events,  am  engaged,”  she  said.  “ If  we 
were  married,  of  course  I should  go  away  with  him, 
and  take  you  with  me.  That  is  impossible  as  it  is 
now.” 

She  paused  and  pondered,  and  went  on — 

“ We  certainly  cannot  leave  to-night.  Fortunately 
there  is  no  dinner-party — only  the  people  in  the 
house.” 

“ Thirty  of  them ! ” I suggested. 

“ Eight  and  twenty  after  Hampden  and  Mr.  Auld- 


226  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiii 

Baillie  are  gone.  Simply  the  people  in  the  house.  I 
have  asked  Hampden  to  telegraph  first  thing  in  the 
morning,  it  will  be  too  late  to-night.  If  there  is  . . . 
any  change  ...  of  course  we  will  leave  at  once,  and 
I would  ask  Lady  Severn  to  let  us  breakfast  up  here, 
so  that  we  could  go  straight  down  to  the  carriage. 
But  if  his  father  is  better  I don’t  think  we  should  go 
till  later  in  the  day.  They  are  going  to  dance  after 
dinner;  it  was  to  have  been  your  first  dance;  I’m  sorry, 
but  there’s  no  help  for  it.  After  all  it’s  easier  to  ar- 
range than  if  only  the  Duke — that  zvould  have  been 
a puzzle ! For  you  to  be  dancing ” 

She  paused  and  shook  her  head;  grave  and  shocked 
as  she  was,  it  gave  her  a sober  satisfaction  to  think 
how  a Duke’s  death  should  complicate  the  question 
of  her  sister’s  dancing. 

At  that  moment  a knock  was  heard  at  the  door;  it 
was  a housemaid  who  said  that  one  of  the  footmen 
was  outside  with  a message  from  Mr.  Monk — would 
Miss  Auberon  be  good  enough  to  come  to  him,  for  a 
moment,  in  the  library;  he  was  just  leaving. 

“ Come,  Marjory,”  said  Sylvia,  rising  at  once.  But 
I didn’t  see  why  I should  go. 

“ Please  come,”  she  repeated,  and  I went  with  her, 
the  footman  going  down  before  us  to  open  the  door. 
In  the  library  I saw  no  one  but  Mr.  Monk,  who  came 
forward,  and  touched  my  hand;  to  my  great  relief  I 
understood  that  I was  not  expected  to  say  anything. 
He  looked  darker  than  ever,  and  paler.  A moment 
later  I found  that  he  was  not  the  only  person  in  the 
room  besides  Sylvia  and  myself.  Mr.  Auld-Baillie 
was  there,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  a huge  recess 
away  from  the  fire  and  the  lamps.  Before  I saw  him 


ch.  xxxiii]  MONKSBRIDGE  227 

I had  moved  a little  apart  from  Sylvia  and  Hamp- 
den, and  he  came  forward  at  the  same  moment. 

“ I am  going,”  he  said,  “ on  a solemn  errand — not 
a sad  one;  for  my  poor  cousin  was  very  old,  and 
he  has  long  ceased  to  live,  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 
He  had  had  a previous  seizure,  and  it  deprived  him 
of  all  sense  and  power  of  recognition.  He  did  not 
feel  his  life  a burden,  because  he  did  not  know  he  was 
alive;  and  he  has  been  thus  for  two  years;  he  might 
have  lived  on  thus  a long  time.  I thought  perhaps 
he  would.  I did  not  mention  him  to-day  in  speaking 
to  you ; it  would  have  been  an  indelicacy.  This  is  no 
time  to  re-open  what  we  were  then  discussing.” 

I agreed  with  him  and  bowed  a silent  assent. 

“ No,  of  course,”  he  went  on  calmly.  “ Even  if 
there  were  time.” 

Then  he  held  out  a hand  that  I had  no  choice  but 
to  take,  and  said — 

“ Good-bye.  I ask  your  recollection  and  your  pray- 
ers— added  duties  come  upon  me.  Good-bye ; but  even 
at  this  moment  it  is  right  that  I should  tell  you  again 
that  I cannot  take  as  final  your  decision  of  this  morn- 
ing: I shall  seek  you  out  in  your  own  home.”  He 
glanced  at  Sylvia,  and  I knew  she  had  told  him  he 
might  come.  “ In  your  mother’s  house  I shall  look  for 
you,  and  in  her  I shall  look  for  a wise  ally.” 

He  glanced  at  Hampden  Monk,  and  I knew  that 
he  counted  on  an  ally  there  too. 

I was  angry  with  all  three  of  them — not  with  poor 
innocent  Mamma — but  with  Sylvia,  and  Hampden,  and 
him,  and  knew  well  they  had  made  time  to  conclude 
some  treaty,  two  and  two  probably,  during  the  earlier 
part  of  that  fateful,  slow  afternoon.  But  how  could 


228 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiii 


I turn  on  them  then?  Hampden  Monk  I had  never 
really  liked,  now  I knew  clearly  that  I disliked  him: 
was  Sylvia  going  to  make  me  turn  against  her  too? 
There  was  no  objection  on  earth  to  disliking  Mr. 
Auld-Baillie,  but  I could  not  at  that  moment  flare  up 
at  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  solemn  mourning  that  did 
not  even  pretend  to  be  grief. 

“ Good-bye,”  I said,  drawing  my  hand  back  coldly. 

“ And  you  will  remember  me  ? ” 

“ Not,”  I answered  in  a low  voice,  “ if  I can  help  it.” 

He  reddened  as  he  had  done  that  morning;  and 
Hampden  saw  it,  if  he  had  not  heard  me.  He  looked 
my  way,  more  brotherly-in-law  than  brotherly,  and  the 
butler,  to  my  great  relief,  opened  the  door,  and,  coming 
forward  a little  way,  bowed  to  Mr.  Auld-Baillie. 

“ Your  lordship’s  carriage  is  at  the  door,”  he  said  in 
a voice  that  reminded  one  of  Court  Mourning. 

There  are  temptations  that  even  the  most  perfect  of 
butlers  can’t  resist,  and  this  butler,  though  he  was  sure 
the  Earl  of  Inverchlory’s  new  honours  should  be 
decorously  ignored  till  after  the  late  Duke’s  funeral, 
could  not  resist  being  the  first  to  “ my  lord  ” him. 

“ Have  you  anything  gray?”  Sylvia  asked  me  the 
moment  the  door  had  closed  upon  our  two'  young 
men.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  a little  bit 
frightened  of  me,  and  she  wanted  to  forestall  anything 
I might  have  to  say.  “ Have  you  anything  grey?  Your 
new  dresses  are — not,  of  course,  brilliant , but  certainly 
bright.  Grey  would  be  exactly  the  colour.  I have  a 
grey  gown ” 

“No.  I have  nothing  grey.  But,  Sylvia,  please 
understand  once  and  for  all  that  I have  refused  Mr. 
Auld-Baillie  finally.  Neither  you,  nor  he,  nor  Hamp- 


ch.  xxxiii]  MONKSBRIDGE  229 

den  shall  interfere  with  me.  I have  never  tried  to  in- 
terfere in  your  affairs,  and ” 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  again,  and  Sylvia, 
I am  sure,  had  never  been  so  glad  to  see  Lady  Severn 
as  she  was  then. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 


Miss  Beaufront  was  right;  Lord  Monksbridge’s 
stroke  was  his  first  and  his  last.  About  half-past  eight 
next  morning  Lady  Severn  received  a telegram  from 
Mr.  Monk  asking  her  to  break  to  Sylvia  the  news  of 
his  father’s  death.  We  were  already  up,  and  Lady 
Severn  came  to  our  room;  she  made  me  a little  sign 
and  I went  out,  leaving  her  alone  with  my  sister. 
Outside  I found  Hermione,  who  took  me  into  Lady 
Severn’s  own  sitting-room  on  the  same  corridor. 

“ It  is  very  sad,”  she  said  at  once,  “ and  I feel  such 
a pig  for  having  talked  to  you  as  I did  yesterday  about 
Sylvia.  Last  night  I talked  to  her  a little,  and  tried  to 
be  nice.  She  feels  it;  and  she  says  what  an  attached 
son  Mr.  Monk  was.” 

“ Yes ; he  is.  Though  I think  he  liked  his  mother 
best,  and  it’s  the  best  thing  about  him.” 

“ I understand.  I’ve  heard  of  her,  and  she’s  rather 
queer,  isn’t  she?  ” 

“ Yes,  but  really  nice.” 

“ I know.  I should  like  her  best,  too,  best  of  the 
family;  but  she  wasn’t  in  his  line  quite,  and  so  you’re 
right  about  its  being  the  best  thing  about  him,  his  being 
so  fond  of  her.” 

“ Hermione,  we’re  going  away  at  once,  and  I can’t 
help  saying  things  I oughtn’t ; I am  very  sorry  for 
Hampden,  but  he’s  not  in  my  good  books.  He  and 
Sylvia — in  a while,  when  all  this  trouble  is  past  a little 

— will  try  to  interfere  with  me,  about — about ” 

230 


231 


ch.  xxxiv ] MONKSBRIDGE 

“ About  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  ? ” 

“Yes.  He  wants  to  come  and  stay  at  Cross  Place; 
and  even  if  I can  stop  that,  I can’t  prevent  Hampden 
asking  him  to  Llanthamy.  It’s  horrid  thinking  and 
talking  of  such  things  now,  but  Mr.  Auld-Baillie  talked 
of  it  again  last  night,  just  before  he  went  away;  and 
Sylvia  and  Hampden  were  there.  I could  see  they  were 
on  his  side,  and  that  they  and  he  had  made  a league 
against  me.” 

“ Marjory ! Remember  I’m  on  your  side,  and  so  is 
Briggy.  We’re  not  much  account,  but  we’re  on  your 
side;  and  if  he  comes  to  Cross  Place,  or  Llanthamy, 
and  they  are  bothering  you,  I’ll  tell  you  what  to  do — 
just  come  to  us,  to  Mount  Cressy,  or  here,  if  you’d  like 
it  better,  and  I’ll  be  here  to  meet  you.  Just  telegraph, 
and  Mamma  will  write  and  ask  you,  or  Aunt  Muriel  if 
it’s  to  be  here ” 

Lady  Severn  came  in  and  interrupted  us,  and  said 
I had  better  go  to  my  sister ; then,  very  kindly  indeed, 
she  held  my  hand  and  said — 

“ Your  first  visit  to  us  has  had  a sad  ending,  Mar- 
jory ; but  you  must  come  again ” 

“ Aunt  Muriel,”  said  Hermione,  “ let  her  come  when 
it’s  not  a big  party:  when  only  Mamma  and  we  are 
here,  and ” 

“ But,  Glorum,  perhaps  she  would  find  that  dull.” 
“ No,  she  wouldn’t.  Would  you,  Marjory?” 

“ I should  like  it  much  best,”  I said,  and  then  Lady 
Severn  kissed  me,  and  I went  away  to  Sylvia.  She  was 
at  breakfast,  in  her  grey  gown,  attended  by  a house- 
maid, with  a face  at  half-mast,  of  whose  presence  I was 
glad,  as  it  prevented  conversation. 

On  the  stairs  Lord  Severn  was  waiting  to  say  good- 


232  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiv 

bye;  he  was  very  kind  and  quiet,  saying  very  little,  but 
exactly,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  what  was  right.  He  also 
hoped  to  see  us  again.  Of  Hampden  Monk  he  spoke 
with  respectful  sympathy.  “ He,”  he  said,  “ will  have 
to  console  his  poor  mother.  You  ” — to  Sylvia — “will 
be  his  best  consolation.” 

He  spoke  of  seeing  them  both,  together,  at  Severn 
Court  again,  in  happier  days,  evidently  meaning  when 
they  were  married.  To  me  he  said  a little  word  in  my 
ear,  as  we  went  down. 

“ You  must  come  without  waiting  for  them  to  bring 
you,”  he  almost  whispered.  “ Briggy  and  Hermione 
count  on  having  you  more  to  themselves.” 

Briggy  was  there,  in  a darkish  corner  of  the  stairs; 
he  slipped  forward  and  said — 

“ Mind,  you’re  to  come  back ; or  Glorum  and  I will 
go  and  kidnap  you.” 

Then  he  disappeared,  and  we  went  down  to  the  hall, 
where  the  Bishop  was  tapping  a barometer  with  a sim- 
plicity that  might  have  deceived  the  very  elect,  but  I 
was  not  elect,  and  was  not  in  the  least  deceived.  He 
had  not  decided  that  it  Set  Fair  till  Sylvia  had  gone  by, 
then  he  turned  to  me,  and  squeezed  my  hand,  or, 
rather,  my  mackintosh  which  I was  holding  in  it,  and 
murmured — 

“ God  bless  you  both ! God  bless  you  all.  Assure 
your  dear  mother  of  my  sympathy.” 

I longed  to  remind  him  that  it  was  Lady  Monks- 
bridge  who  had  lost  her  husband,  or  rather  that  my 
mother’s  own  loss  was  not  very  recent ; but,  of  course, 
I wouldn’t,  and,  when  I came  to  think  of  it,  it  did 
not  seem  very  necessary.  He  was  obviously  aware 
of  it. 


233 


CH.  xxxiv]  MONKSBRIDGE 

Hovering  round  the  dining-room  door,  I was  con- 
scious of  a whirl  of  petticoats  suggestive  of  Miss  Beau- 
front,  and  hoped  she  would  nab  the  Bishop.  She  would 
have  thought  more  highly  of  me  had  she  known  how 
cordially  I wished  to  see  her  reigning  over  Rood  Pal- 
ace, and  how  readily  I would  have  sacrificed  poor  Miss 
Garboyle;  still  my  conscience  pricked  me  for  that 
sandy-eyebrowed  virgin,  and  the  notion  of  Miss  Beau- 
front  as  a stepmother  shook  me  so  that,  as  we  drove 
away,  I almost  forgot  that  Fate  herself  could  never 
make  that  warrior  marry  Mamma. 

The  station-master  was  fully  aware  of  Sylvia’s  loss 
— perhaps  of  mine,  and  he  scouted  the  porters,  and  was 
almost  jealous  of  the  footman,  as  he  led  us  to  our 
carriage,  without,  I am  sure,  the  least  thought  of 
tips. 

“ The  carriage  is  Reserved,”  he  whispered,  touching 
his  cap  (usually  worn  at  a taking  angle,  now  solemnly 
straight)  for  the  thirteenth  time.  He  was  clearly  of 
opinion  that  we  required  total  solitude  for  the  indul- 
gence of  our  noble  grief.  And  the  guard  stood  by  as 
though  it  depended  on  us  when  the  train  should  move 
on;  the  convenience  of  an  abject  public  mattered  noth- 
ing when  it  was  a question  of  two  young  ladies  pros- 
trated, one  by  the  death  of  a Lord,  and  one  by 
that  of  a Duke.  Had  we  been  hurrying  home  to  the 
funeral  of  our  own  father,  the  late  Reverend  Peter 
Auberon,  would  the  milk-cans  have  been  smuggled 
stealthily  into  the  train  with  a warning  “ Hsh ! ” from 
the  senior  porter  ? 

Of  course.  Death  is  more  dreadful  than  the  impend- 
ing threat  of  it;  and  certainly  Sylvia  had  a more 
lugubrious  air  as  we  were  assisted  into  that  railway- 


234 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiv 

carriage  than  she  had  worn  last  night  by  our  fire,  or 
than  she  had  assumed  half  an  hour  ago  as  we  shook 
hands  with  our  host. 

As  the  train  moved  away  she  said,  “ People  talk  of 
the  decay  of  a proper  spirit  among  the  lower  classes. 
The  right  feeling  is  still  there.  It  is  gratifying.  It’s  all 
very  well  for  sarcastic  old  women,  like  Mrs.  de  Braose, 
to  sneer  at  new  titles,  but  Lord  Monksbridge  was  Some- 
body after  all.  His  political  position  was  high.  His 
name,  one  sees,  was  well  known  to  people  like 
these.” 

“ So,”  I observed  angrily,  “ was  the  Duke  of  Iona’s. 
That  station-master  could  not  trust  me  to  climb  into  the 
carriage  without  his  hand  under  my  elbow.  It’s  an 
awful  thing  for  England  when  a Duke  dies  who  didn’t 
know  for  two  years  if  he  was  alive  or  dead.” 

“ Marjory ! It  is  indecent  to  talk  like  that — in  your 
position  too.” 

“ Then  it  was  indecent  for  him  to  tell  me.  I shouldn’t 
have  known  if  he  hadn’t  told  me.  My  position ! I have 
no  position,  except  that  I’m  Marjory  Auberon,  and  all 
the  nonsense  on  earth  will  never  make  me  Marjory 
Auld-Baillie.” 

“ ‘ Marjory  Inverchlory.’  ” I saw  her  lips  forming 
the  correction;  and,  with  all  her,  perfectly  just,  horror 
of  my  indecency,  it  was  as  plain  as  no  part  of  her  face 
that  she  treated  that  future  Countess  with  an  indulgent 
patience  that  Marjory  Auberon  could  never  have  quite 
reckoned  on  half  a year  before. 

Perkin  met  us,  and  somehow  he  looked  younger  than 
when  we  had  gone  away  a week  before ; certainly  I felt 
older.  He  was  very  nice  to  Sylvia,  and  very  quiet  and 
gentle  with  us  both. 


235 


CH.  xxxiv ] MONKSBRIDGE 

The  reader  may  remember  that  the  station  was' 
several  miles  from  Monksbridge,  and  he  told  us  that 
Lady  Llantwddwy  had  sent  her  carriage  for  us.  It  was 
certainly  kind  of  her,  and  made  me  think  of  Traddles 
lending  David  Copperfield  his  pillow  on  the  night  when 
the  news  came  that  David’s  mother  was  dead. 

As  we  drove  home,  Perkin  told  us  that  Lord  Monks- 
bridge had  been  alive,  but  unconscious,  when  Hampden 
had  arrived;  an  hour  later  he  had  become  conscious, 
and  had  spoken  to  his  wife  and  son,  and  he  mentioned 
Sylvia,  saying  that  he  hoped  they  would  not  much 
delay  their  marriage  on  account  of  his  death. 

Sylvia  was  touched  when  Perkin  said  how  she  had 
been  remembered,  but  she  shook  her  head  when  she 
heard  that  Lord  Monksbridge  did  not  wish  the 
marriage  to  be  long  postponed. 

“ There  was  another  thing,”  our  brother  went  on,  “ it 
shows  what  a kind  and  thoughtful  man  he  was,  and  it 
shows  that  he  had  been  feeling  ill — he  told  them.  Lady 
Monksbridge  and  Hampden,  that,  a few  days  before,  he 
had  added  something  to  his  will,  leaving  Sylvia  ten 
thousand  pounds  in  case  he  should  die  before  she  and 
his  son  were  married.” 

“Yes,”  said  our  sister,  “he  was  kind;  it  was 
thoughtful,”  and  for  the  first  time  she  cried. 

Mamma  was  crying,  too,  when  she  met  us  in  the  hall 
at  home.  As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  drawing-room  she 
brought  out  a letter  that  had  come  from  Hampden 
Monk  after  Perkin  had  gone  to  fetch  us. 

“ He  wrote  early  this  morning,”  she  said,  “ and  sent 
the  note  over  by  a groom — he  had  written  last  night 
too,  just  after  getting  home.  I must  say  he  is  very 
thoughtful.”  Then  she  told  us  what  we  had  heard 


236  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiv 

already  from  Perkin.  “This  letter,”  she  went  on,  “ is 
to  ask  if  you  would  go  to  Llanthamy.” 

“ Oh,  Mamma ! I don’t  think  that  would  be  the 
right  thing  at  all,”  said  Sylvia.  “ We  are  only  engaged. 
To  go  there  now,  at  once,  before  the  funeral — I’m  sure 
it  wouldn’t  be  the  right  thing.” 

“ My  dear ! ” Mamma  pleaded,  with  more  inde- 
pendence of  Sylvia’s  opinion  than  I had  ever  seen  her 
show,  “ I think  that  does  not  matter  if  they  want  you. 
He  speaks  of  his  mother.” 

Perkin  said  nothing,  but  he  looked  at  Sylvia  much 
less  gently,  and  turned  away  to  the  fire  almost  im- 
patiently. I could  not  help  understanding  that  she 
had  not  meant  to  go  to  Llanthamy  Castle  till — till  the 
poor  dead  man  should  be  buried;  and  I felt  half  angry 
with  her  like  Perkin.  Rather  to  my  surprise  Mamma 
persisted. 

“They  are  in  such  trouble ” she  began. 

“Yes;  it  is  a trouble  for  us  all,”  Sylvia  interrupted, 
not  without  obstinacy. 

“ But  it  is  a trouble,”  Mamma  said  simply,  “ that 
belongs  specially  to  you.  To  us  it  must  chiefly  be 
a trouble  as  it  affects  you.  He  speaks  of  his  mother’s 
loneliness — there  is  no  lady  in  the  house.  Sylvia 
darling,  you  ought  to  go.  He  sent  a carriage  and  the 
letter  with  it ; the  carriage  is  waiting  in  the  coach-yard 
now.” 

“ Mamma — he  and  I are  not  married.  He  is  a 
young  man  and  does  not  understand.  I think  you 

ought  to  write  and  say  that ” 

“ No,  dear,  I cannot  do  that ; if  you  will  not  go,  you 
must  write  yourself.” 

“ But  he  wrote  to  you ” 


237 


CH.  xxxiv]  MONKSBRIDGE 

“ Because  you  were  not  here.  I think  you  must  go — 
or  else  write  to  him  yourself.  He  knows  you  are  here 
by  now,  and  he  will  expect  you  to  go;  if  not,  at  least  to 
write — remember  he  has  heard  nothing  from  you  since 
his  father  died.” 

I was  really  astonished  at  Mamma’s  firmness,  she 
was  usually  like  wax  in  Sylvia’s  hands.  And  I was 
surprised,  too,  at  Perkin’s  forbearance.  He  stood, 
looking  into  the  fire,  with  an  ashamed  expression  on 
his  face,  but  without  any  outburst  of  interference. 

“ How  could  he  have  heard  anything  from  me  ? ” 
Sylvia  complained;  “we  came  away  directly  the  tele- 
gram arrived.  I am  famished  and  frozen ” 

Then  Perkin  broke  down. 

“And  Marjory?”  he  said.  “I  suppose  she’s  cold 
and  hungry  too;  but  we’re  not  bothering  much  about 
her.”  For  once  I behaved  myself,  and  interrupted  on 
the  side  of  peace. 

“ Pm  all  right,”  I said.  “ But  Sylvia  must  either  go 
or  write.  I think  it  would  be  easier  for  her  to  go.  But  ” 
(and  I was  thinking  of  poor  Lady  Monksbridge,  and 
thinking  too  of  how  Lord  Severn  had  said  to  my  sister : 
‘ You  must  be  his  consolation,’  for,  if  Hampden 
naturally  wished  to  have  Sylvia  with  him,  I was  sure 
Mamma  would  be  a greater  comfort  to  Lady  Monks- 
bridge) “I  don’t  think  any  one  could  expect  her  to  go 
alone.  Dear  Mamma!  Why  not  go  with  her?  You 
are  a widow  too,  and  I’m  sure  you  would  be  a comfort 
to  poor  Lady  Monksbridge.” 

Sylvia,  even  at  that  moment,  was  irritated  at  my 
allusion  to  Mamma’s  widowhood,  and  the  truth  was 
she  did  not  want  to  go  at  all,  either  with  or  without 
Mamma.  But  Mamma  was  against  her. 


238  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxiv 

“ Yes,”  she  said ; “ that  will  be  best.  I will  go ” 

“ Why  can’t  you  go  without  me  ? ” Sylvia  suddenly 
demanded.  And  Perkin  spoke  again. 

“ If  you  do  that,”  he  said,  in  a low  voice — “ if  you 
let  her  go  alone — we  shall  all  be  ashamed  of  you.” 

And  I made  no  protest  of  denial — nor  did  Mamma. 

Sylvia  hardly  ever  blushed.  But  a slight,  slow 
blush  crept  up  her  neck  and  spread  over  her  cheeks. 
She  gave  in;  but  I doubt  if  she  ever  forgave  that  calm, 
cold  speech  of  Perkin’s. 

When  they  were  gone  he  turned  to  me. 

“ Muggles ! I shall  never  understand  her,”  he  said. 
“ Is  it  all  propriety?  Is  it  all  just  because  she  doesn’t 
think  people  will  think  it  ‘ the  right  thing  ’ for  her  to  be 
at  Llanthamy  now,  when  she’s  only  engaged  ? ” 

“ No,  Perkin;  not  all  because  of  that.  I think  it  is 
because  she  has  a horror  of  dead  people,  and  is  afraid.” 

“Afraid!  Of  what?” 

“Of  being  in  the  house  with  him  ” — and  Perkin 
knew  I meant  Lord  Monksbridge — “ of,  perhaps, 
having  to  see  him.” 

“ Poor  Hampden  Monk ! ” said  Perkin.  “ I’m  not  in 
love  with  him  myself,  but ” 

“ Perkin,  that’s  not  fair.  She  can’t  help  feeling  like 
that.  Some  people  can’t.  She  was  never  more  sincere 
in  her  life.” 

“ That’s  just  it,”  he  answered,  and  his  voice  made 
me  think  of  Hermione. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

In  spite  of  the  late  Lord  Monksbridge’s  wish  that  his 
son  and  my  sister  should  not  greatly  delay  their 
marriage  on  account  of  his  death,  it  did  not  take  place 
for  a full  year.  Sylvia  would  not  hear  of  it.  She  put 
on  exactly  the  right  degree  of  mourning  for  a man  who 
was  her  future  husband’s  father,  but  was  not  her 
father-in-law;  and  by  unhurried,  but  careful,  degrees 
changed  it,  till,  within  six  months,  she  was  not  in 
mourning  at  all.  But  she  would  not  be  persuaded  to 
marry  during  the  first  year  of  Lady  Monksbridge’s 
widowhood.  Hampden,  though  there  was  nothing 
much  in  his  dress  to  betray  it,  was,  she  insisted,  still  in 
deep  mourning.  He  pleaded,  and  his  mother  obedi- 
ently backed  him;  but  Sylvia,  with  utmost  gentleness, 
remained  firm. 

“ Dear  Lady  Monksbridge,”  she  declared,  “ you  say 
what  he  tells  you ; but  you  know  I am  right.  It  would 
be  a lack  of  respect.” 

Lady  Monksbridge,  like  all  people  who  are  assured 
of  possessing  special  wisdom,  felt  that  she  did  know 
Sylvia  was  right,  though  she  could  not  have  told  any 
one  why. 

I think  I could  have  enlightened  her.  Sylvia’s  great 
scheme  of  elevating  the  Monksbridge  family  was  not  to 
be  spoiled  by  the  death  of  the  first  lord  of  that  name. 
But  it  would  be  spoiled  if  mere  impatience  should  not 

239 


240 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXXV 

allow  her  to  postpone  its  execution.  During  the  early 
period  of  her  engagement,  she  felt  she  had  done  a great 
deal  for  the  second  lord’s  position;  much  that  she  had 
done  would  be  wasted  if  she  had  agreed  to  a marriage 
while  her  husband  was  still  in  mourning.  The  wedding 
must  have  been  very  quiet,  and,  after  it,  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  might  have  gone  abroad,  but  they  could  not 
have  gone  a round  of  great  visits.  How  hard  would  it 
have  then  become  to  strike  upon  a moment  wherein  the 
new  Lord  and  Lady  Monksbridge  could  have  assumed, 
naturally  and  inevitably,  the  position  Sylvia  intended 
for  them. 

“ I have  promised,”  she  told  Mamma,  “ all  those  girls 
that  they  should  be  bridesmaids.”  (There  were  ten  of 
them,  and  the  lowliest  was  an  earl’s  daughter,  a Scotch 
earl,  but  a Knight  of  the  Thistle.)  “Our  domestic 
troubles  are  no  reason  for  disappointing  them.  If  we 
married  at  all  quickly,  there  could  hardly  be  any  brides- 
maids— only  Marjory  to  hold  one’s  bouquet.” 

Certainly  the  only  existing  Lady  Monksbridge 
understood  none  of  this;  but  Sylvia  made  her  think 
there  should  be  no  hurry,  and  her  own  impatience  for 
a daughter-in-law  was  not  vehement.  Meanwhile,  Miss 
Auberon’s  determination  to  abstain  from  a wedding  too 
soon  after  a funeral  made  the  Monksbridgians  attribute 
“ more  heart  ” to  that  young  lady  than  they  had  been 
ready  to  suspect.  Old  Lady  Llantwddwy  was  much 
impressed — till  old  Mrs.  de  Braose  had  scoffed  away 
her  sentimental  applause  over  a cup  of  tea  with  buttery 
muffins.  Lady  Gladws  de  Braose  assured  her  family 
that  Miss  Auberon  was  “ supreme  ” — a dictum  which 
her  brother-in-law  seemed  inclined  first  to  accept 
literally,  and  then  to  resent. 


CH.  XXXV] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


241 


“ Ah ! ” said  Sylvia  to  me  one  day,  standing  in  front 
of  Bishop  Latimer’s  portrait.  “ Your  affair  with  Lord 
Inverchlory  bothered  me  for  the  moment ! I wanted 
that  fifteen  hundred  pounds  badly  for  Mamma.  Your 
affair  with  him  put  it  out  of  the  question.” 

“ You  said  it  would  be  all  right  if  I did  not  mean  to 
marry  him!”  I reminded  her,  not  without  temper; 
“ and  I certainly  don’t.” 

“Did  I?  You  probably  misunderstood  me.  As 
things  are,  any  money  dealings,  even  about  a picture, 
would  be  more  impossible  than  ever.” 

“ There  aren’t  any  ‘ things.’  ” 

Sylvia  shook  her  head.  “ It  doesn’t  matter  now,” 
she  observed,  without  the  least  temper.  “ Lord  Monks- 
bridge’s  thoughtfulness  made  the  money  of  noaccount.” 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  Lord  Inver- 
chlory to  me  since  we  had  returned  home,  but  I knew 
she  had  told  Mamma  about  him,  for  Mamma  could  not 
help  speaking  of  it  to  me. 

“ My  dear,”  she  said  complacently,  “ so  your  very 
first  visit  anywhere  without  me  brought  you  your  first 
proposal.” 

“My  last  too,  I hope,  if  the  others  were  to  be  like  it.” 
Poor  Mamma  almost  jumped.  “ But  I understand,” 
she  said,  “ that  he  is  a charming  young  man ! ” 

“ He  may  charm  Sylvia;  he  didn’t  charm  me  at  all.” 
“ Oh,  of  course  there  could  be  no  idea  of  his 
charming  her — she  has  only  Hampden  to  think  of. 
But  she  said  he  was  quite  excellent,  and  universally 
esteemed.” 

“I  have  no  objection  to  esteem  him  universally. 
But,  Mamma  dear,  please  don’t  take  Sylvia’s  side 
against  me.” 


242 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXXV 


“ Against  you,  my  dear?  ” 

“Yes;  you  will  be  against  me  if  you  join  Hampden 
and  Sylvia.  I know  they  want  me  to  marry  him.” 

“ Because  he  is  so  good — of  such  an  excellent 
character.” 

“Oh,  Mamma!  One  can’t  marry  all  the  people 
who  are  good  and  of  excellent  character.  Young 
Slimber,  the  dairyman,  is  goodness  itself,  and  perfectly 
excellent.  He  teaches  the  third  class  of  boys  in  the 
Sunday  school,  and  all  the  butter  in  his  shop  would 
not  melt  in  his  mouth.” 

“ But,  dear,  he  is  a common  man — a dairyman,  as 
you  say.” 

“ Exactly.  And  Lord  Inverchlory  is  an  Earl.  The 
cases  are  altogether  different.” 

“ That’s  what  I say,”  said  Mamma,  quite  puzzled, 
which  served  my  turn  as  well  as  anything  else.  I did 
not  want  to  discuss  my  respectable  wooer  at  all. 

I soon  discovered  that  Mamma  had  told  Perkin,  who 
gathered  that  a titled  Sunday-school  teacher,  somehow 
connected  with  the  dairy  industry,  had  been  smitten 
with  my  charms.  He  did  not  understand  that  I had 
exactly  refused  the  tender  of  this  mealy-mouthed  young 
nobleman’s  hand,  and  was  rather  severe  at  first. 

“ I knew  you’d  get  into  mischief,”  he  remarked 
austerely.  “ You  didn’t  take  long.  I suppose  Sylvia 
engineered  it.” 

“ No,  she  didn’t,”  I assured  him,  for  I like  to  be  fair. 
And  then  I told  him  all  about  it,  explaining  that  Lord 
Inverchlory  was  not  mealy-mouthed  or  hypocritical,  but 
quite  a good  sort  of  man  except  for  the  one  great  fault 
of  thinking  I would  make  a good  Lady  Inverchlory. 

“ And,”  inquired  Perkin  judicially,  “ you  really  said 


ch.  xxxv]  MONKSBRIDGE  243 

‘ No  ’ — flat  and  straight?  Mamma  seemed  to  think  he 
was  to  ‘ cut  and  come  again.’  ” 

“ That  was  Sylvia.  And  Sylvia  knows  quite  well  I 
said  * No/  only  she  chooses  to  forget  it  now.  I couldn’t 
exactly  tell  him  to  ‘ cut/  but  the  last  word  I said  to  him 
was  that  I would  never  see  him  again  if  I could  help  it. 
I believe  she  heard  me;  I’m  sure  Hampden  did.” 

“ Did  he  propose  before  Hampden  and  Sylvia?  ” 
Then  I had  to  make  further  explanations,  ending  by 
telling  him  how  Hermione  and  Briggy  were  on  my 
side,  and  would  help  me— -also  how  they  proposed  to 
do  it. 

“ All  right,”  said  Perkin,  now  quite  satisfied  of  my 
innocence.  “ I don’t  see  what  you  could  do  better.  If 
he  really  comes  here,  just  you  let  them  know,  and  if 
you  have  to  telegraph,  I’ll  send  off  the  telegram  for 
you.  But  I should  think  that  would  not  be  necessary. 
He  can’t  very  well  come  to  stay  without  writing  to  ask 
if  he  may,  and  you  would  know  that,  and  could  write 
yourself  to  Glorum ” 

“ Perkin,  you  shouldn’t  call  her  Glorum.  Her  name 
is  Lady  Hermione  Cressy,  and  she’s  grown  up — at 
least  she’s  nearly  seventeen.” 

“ Well,  she  calls  me  Perkin,  and  I’m  Mr.  Peter 
Auberon,”  he  answered  cheerfully.  “ She  and  Briggy 
are  good  chaps,  I can  see  that.  But  mind  this — if  you 
change  your  mind  and  sprout  out  into  Mrs.  Auld 
Crankie  Castle,  I shall  know  what  to  think  of  you.” 

“ Tut ! Auld  Crankie  Castle  is  a thing,  so  to  speak, 
of  the  past.  But  I don’t  intend  to  be  Countess  of  In- 
verchlory  of  Inver  Palace,  etc. — not  even  if  our  Papa- 
in-law of  Rood  Palace  wishes  it.” 

Then  Perkin  skipped,  and  I created  a diversion  from 


244 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XXXV 

my  own  affairs.  I must  say  I thought  it  rather  selfish 
of  him  to  be  much  more  deeply  concerned  by  his  own 
danger  of  having  an  episcopal  stepfather  than  he  had 
been  by  my  danger  of  having  Lord  Inverchlory  for  a 
husband. 

To  return  to  Sylvia.  For  several  months  she  re- 
mained at  Cross  Place.  Then  she  began  to  go  away 
again  “ a-Duking,”  as  Perkin  and  Hermione  called  it ; 
in  the  first  instance  without  either  Mamma  or  me,  and 
still  in  a very  slight  mourning.  Before  accepting  the 
invitation  she  explained  that  she  would  rather  not  go  if 
there  was,  by  any  chance,  to  be  dancing  in  the  house ; 
nor  did  she  accept  till  she  had  made  Hampden  (rather 
reluctantly)  refuse — for  he  also  had  been  asked. 

On  the  next  occasion,  the  new  Lord  Monksbridge 
accepted  by  return  of  post — and  Sylvia  went,  but  took 
Mamma.  There  was  no  dancing,  only  tableaux  vivants, 
and  tableaux  are  not  incompatible  with  the  later  stages 
of  half-mourning;  but  my  sister  firmly  declined  taking 
any  part  in  them — even  that  of  Lady  Jane  Grey  in  the 
beheading  scene.  “ And  really,”  Mamma  confessed  to 
me  on  her  return,  “ I thought  that  would  be  mourning.” 

“ Sylvia,”  I observed,  “ has  a correct  mind.  Mourn- 
ing can  hardly  be  said  to  begin  till  the  death  has  oc- 
curred.” 

“Yes,  I didn’t  think  of  that.  They  had  two 
executions — young  Sir  Budleigh  Salterton  had  an  exe- 
cutioner’s suit,  block  and  all,  and  he  liked  using  it. 
Charles  I.  was  done  too;  Lord  Wrekin,  you  know,  in  a 
shirt  that  really  belonged  to  him.” 

“ Didn’t  the  other  gentlemen’s  shirts  belong  to 
them  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes.  But  the  King  gave  the  shirt  he  was 


ch.  xxxv]  MONKSBRIDGE  245 

beheaded  in  to  Lord  Wrekin’s  ancestors  just  before  (or 
just  after) ” 

“ Who,”  I interrupted  suspiciously,  “ was  Bishop 
Juxon?” 

“Lord  Alured  Mohun  ( moon  they  call  it)  ; he  had 
just  been  ordained;  and  the  Bishop  wouldn’t  be — 
though  some  of  them  said  it  would  be  so  splendid  to 
have  a real  Bishop.” 

“ To  match  the  real  block.” 

“ Yes,  I suppose.  But  the  Bishop  told  me  he  couldn’t 
think  of  it.  It  would  be  acting,  even  though  he  didn’t 
say  anything ; besides  he  couldn’t  do  anything  to  coun- 
tenance Dr.  Juxon,  or  Charles  I.  either,  who  were,  he 
thinks,  much  of  a muchness.” 

Within  a few  days  of  that  little  conversation  I 
became  aware  that  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster  was 
coming  to  Monksbridge,  and  that  Lord  Inverchlory 
was  expected  at  Llanthamy  Castle ; and  I thought  their 
lordships  much  of  a muchness  too. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 


I had  been  to  see  Miss  Belvoir,  who  was  on  the  qui-vive 
to  perceive  herself  neglected  since  my  visit  to  Severn 
Court,  though  it  had  given  her  intense  satisfaction  to 
pump  me  about  all  the  smart  company  I had  met  there, 
concerning  whom  she  seemed  to  know  much  more  than 
I did. 

“ Ah ! Lady  Agincourt,  yes,”  she  had  remarked. 
“ You  might  think  the  title  goes  back  to  Henry  V.,  but 
it  was  only  created  by  James  I.  Sir  James  Cressy 
was  one  of  his  whipping-boys.  I remember  the  last 
Earl  died  in  November,  ’65,  and  there  are  two  co- 
heiresses. Beaufront — she  would  be  an  aunt  of  the 
present  Baronet;  the  first  was  a dandy  under  the 
Regent,  and  lent  him  money — of  course  he  was  never 
paid  back,  but  George  IV.  gave  him  a baronetcy.  The 
Severns  have  always  been  Whigs  ” (Miss  Belvoir  was 
a passionate  Tory),  “and  had  the  Whig  knack  of 
marrying  great  fortunes  and  keeping  them  in  the 
family.  They  began  with  a Parliamentary  general  of 
no  position,  but  related  to  the  Protector’s  wife;  but 
they  got  no  title  till  William  of  Orange’s  time,  he  gave 
them  their  Viscountcy,  and  George  I.  added  the  Earl- 
dom; after  Culloden,  where  the  Earl  distinguished 
himself  (on  the  wrong  side,  of  course),  George  II. 
gave  the  Marquessate.  Very  big  people.” 

“ Lord  Severn  is  very  little.” 

And  then  Miss  Belvoir  applied  for  a description  of 

246 


ch.  xxxvi]  MONKSBRIDGE  247 

the  reigning  Marquess,  and  statistics  as  to  his  house- 
hold. 

“ So,”  she  observed  presently,  “ you  met  the  Bishop 
of  Lowminster — Garboyle ; his  father  was  a college- 
scout  at  Oxford,  and  saved  money  enough  to  marry  a 
widow  with  a good  inn,  but  not  very  young.  There  was 
only  the  one  child  and  they  put  him  to  a good  school 
and  then  sent  him  to  Cambridge.  Our  Warden  here 
was  an  undergraduate  with  him,  and  knows  all  about 
him.  The  Whig  bishops  are  generally  nobodies.  ” 

Of  the  Bishop’s  friend,  Mr.  Auld-Baillie,  I made  no 
mention,  though  I knew  that  Miss  Belvoir  would  have 
treated  me  with  much  more  respect  had  she  suspected 
that  the  coronet  of  a highly  Whig  countess  had  been 
within  my  grasp.  Had  I clutched  it,  she  would  not 
have  thought  me  spoiled  even  though  my  visits  had 
degenerated  in  frequency.  Sylvia  hardly  ever  went 
near  her;  when  she  did,  she  was  treated  with  much 
more  consideration  than  I was. 

On  the  present  occasion  Miss  Belvoir  informed  me 
that  Mrs.  FitzSimon  had  called  that  morning. 

“ When  she  comes  in  a morning  it  is  always  for 
something  special ; your  Bishop,  that  Lowminster  man 
you  met  at  Lord  Severn’s,  is  coming  to  preach  for  the 
Warden.” 

“ When  ? ” I inquired  eagerly. 

“ Not  to-morrow — to-morrow  week.  He  wrote  to 
the  Warden  and  reminded  him  of  their  college  days 
together,  and  seemed  quite  sentimental  about  them.  (I 
dare  say,  if  Mrs.  FitzSimon  knew  all,  they  had  fine 
doings  up  at  Cambridge.)  He  evidently  hinted  at  a 
visit,  for  the  Warden  promptly  asked  him  to  come  and 
preach ; and  he  accepted  at  once.  Mrs.  Fitz  is  all  of  a 


248  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvi 

tilly-willy ; she  loves  to  have  a My  Lord  to  show  her 
big  rooms  to,  but  she’s  cross  with  her  Warden  for  not 
being  a Bishop  himself.  ‘ They  were  in  the  same 
college  ’ (not  much  of  a college  either — Ely’s  not  much 
better  than  a hall),  she  said,  ‘and  Garboyle  was  not  at 
all  a leading  man  there — he  had  no  scholarship.  By 
what  I can  make  out,  the  Warden  never  saw  anything 
in  him,  or  anybody  else  up  at  Cambridge;  but  he  bought 
a proprietary  chapel  up  in  town  (with  his  mother’s 
savings  from  the  beer,  I suppose),  and  preached  to 
old  women  who  liked  the  idea  of  faith  much  better 
than  works,  and  drank  a lot  of  tea  with  them,  out  of 
church,  and  prescribed  for  their  sick  poodles,  and 
prayed  over  their  own  indigestions.’  ” 

“ Miss  Belvoir,”  I protested,  “ I don’t  believe  Mrs. 
Fitz  ever  said  that.” 

“ Well,  perhaps  not  in  those  words.  I make  the 
best  of  her.  She’s  not  very  amusing  in  her  way  of 
telling  things,  is  she  ? However,  that’s  the  gist  of  it — 
according  to  her,  Garboyle  muffined  himself  into 
society.  Where  rich  old  women  are,  nephews  and 
brothers  are  never  far  off ; and  he  had  a lot  of  tact  and 
talk,  and  knew  exactly  what  friends  were  worth  making 
— so  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  he’s  a bishop,  and 
any  My  Lord  is  better  than  no  My  Lord,  and  Mrs.  Fitz 
is  glad  to  get  him;  but  the  Warden  ought  to  be  My 
Lord  too,  and  his  lady  thinks  it  must  be  his  fault. 
She’s  a Whig,  like  the  Dean,  her  papa,  and  if  she  had 
married  a Whig  Warden  all  might  have  been  well.” 

“ And,”  I asked,  “ is  the  Bishop  coming  to  stay  with 
them  at  Warden’s  Lodge?” 

“ Of  course  he  is.  That’s  what  the  sermon’s  for. 
There’d  be  no  point  in  it  without.  There’ll  be  dinners 


249 


CH.  xxxvi ] MONKSBRIDGE 

and  a social  evening ; she’ll  show  the  Bishop  to  Monks- 
bridge,  and  show  the  de  Braoses,  and  Lady  Llantwd- 
dwy,  and  Lord  Monksbridge  to  the  Bishop.” 

I was  glad  he  was  not  coming  to  stay  with  us,  any- 
way; but — would  he  not — would  he  not  come  on  to  us? 

When  I got  home  I announced  his  advent  with 
intentional  abruptness. 

“ The  Bishop,”  said  I,  with  a keen  eye  on  Sylvia,  “ is 
coming.  Did  you  know  ? ” 

“The  Bishop ! ” cried  Sylvia.  “Why,  he’s  just  been.” 
(Monksbridge,  of  course,  , is  not  in  the  Lowminster 
diocese.)  “ He  was  here  last  month.  Everybody  was 
confirmed — they  can’t  be  done  over  again.” 

As  if  Sylvia  was  to  be  entrapped  by  the  likes  of  me ! 
But  Mamma,  if  ever  in  her  life  she  dropped  a stitch 
without  noticing  it,  dropped  one  then. 

“ Besides,”  said  Sylvia,  “ he  has  gone  abroad.” 

“ Oh,  it’s  not  our  Bishop,”  I explained.  “ And  he’s 
not  coming  to  confirm  anybody;  only  to  preach  for 
the  Warden,  who  was  his  boon  companion  at  Cam- 
bridge  ” 

“ Marjory!  ” murmured  our  mother. 

“ Well,  whatever  young  bishops  and  wardens  are 
before  they  blow  out.” 

“ Blow  out!  ” gasped  Mamma. 

“ The  Bishop  of  where  ? ” asked  Sylvia,  overdoing 
innocence  by  a shade. 

“ There’s  no  Bishop  of  Ware,”  I reminded  her, 
humorously.  “ But  you’ve  heard  of  a Bishop  of  Low- 
minster.” 

“ Why  didn’t  you  say  so  at  once  ? ” asked  Sylvia, 
still  almost  too  innocently.  “ Is  he  coming  to  stay  with 
the  Warden  ? He  was  at  Lord  Wrekin’s,  and  he  didn’t 


250 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvi 

mention  it.  Mamma,  did  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster 
tell  you  he  was  coming  to  stay  with  Dr.  FitzSimon?  ” 

Sylvia  I would  watch  inexorably.  Mamma  I could 
not.  I might,  if  I liked,  have  studied  both  of  them  in 
the  mirror  opposite,  but  I went  over  to  the  fire  and 
poked  it,  quite  noisily. 

Still  I heard  Mamma’s  answer. 

“ No,  dear.  He  didn’t.  But  I remember  him  saying 
— twice — that  he  had  a great  desire  to  visit  Monks- 
bridge;  and — and — that  the  place  had  a special  at — 
att — interest  for  him.” 

I did  not  turn  my  head;  but  sat  on  the  hearthrug, 
poking  the  fire,  and  looking  into  it  and  into  myself. 
Why,  I suddenly  asked  myself,  if  she  (I  would  not  say 
“ Mamma”) — if  she  should  really  want  to  marry  this 
Bishop,  why  should  I wish  to  prevent  her  ? I wouldn’t 
let  anybody,  Sylvia,  or  even  her,  interfere  with  my  life ; 
what  right  had  I,  after  all,  to  interfere  with  hers?  To 
me  the  Bishop  seemed  a silly,  tiresome  old  man;  but  if, 
if  really,  she  would  like  to  be  his  wife,  no  doubt  she  did 
not  think  him  dull  and  foolish.  I could  not  pretend  to 
believe  that  he  would  be  harsh  or  overbearing  to  her,  or 
in  any  way  unkind ; he  was  not  specially  selfish,  or  in- 
decorously self-indulgent.  If  he  must  needs  marry 
again,  was  it  not  in  his  favour  that  he  did  not  look 
about  for  money,  or  a title,  or  youthful  beauty — but 
should  be  content  with  quiet  goodness  and  sweetness 
like  hers?  At  least  there  could  be  no  worldliness  in 
his  choice.  And,  if  she  too  must  needs  marry  again, 
would  it  not  be  well  that  she  should  choose  just  such 
an  one  as  he  ? He  was  not  young ; it  would  have  been 
horrible  had  she  fancied  some  pretty  fellow  younger 
than  herself;  but  neither  was  he  old,  or  repulsive;  no 


251 


ch.  xxxvi ] MONKSBRIDGE 

doubt  he  was  a good  man,  and  of  his  house  she  would 
be  a fit  and  gracious  mistress,  provoking  no  animosities 
— reason  seemed  all  against  me;  only  prejudice  and 
instinct,  and  the  unforgettable  certainty  how  Perkin 
would  hate  it,  were  on  my  side. 

I beat  a certain  block  of  coal  half  savagely,  and 
could  not  turn  round.  A small  tear  oozed  out  of  one 
eye;  there  was  something  else.  Even  to  myself  I 
would  not  say  it,  but — but,  if  this  thing  came  about  I 
could  not  help  feeling  that  I should  have  lost  some- 
thing I worshipped  when  my  dear,  dear  mother  was 
no  longer  our  father’s  widow,  but  that  sleek  stranger’s 
wife;  and  what  I did  say  was  that  it  would  be  Sylvia’s 
doing.  Why  couldn’t  she  leave  us  alone?  Of  ambition 
dear  Mamma  was  as  utterly  incapable  as  she  was  of 
scheming,  but  Sylvia  would  place  us  all,  and  her  terrible 
sense  of  fitness  showed  her  no  possible  stepfather 
more  absolutely  fit  than  an  elderly  irreproachable 
bishop. 

I heard  the  door  open  and  close  again,  and  when  I 
turned  to  look  over  my  shoulder  Mamma  was  gone. 
Since  I could  remember  anything,  had  she  tried  to 
have  a secret  from  me?  Now  I knew  that  she  thought 
she  had  one. 

“ Sylvia ! ” I said  angrily,  getting  up  from  the  floor 
and  facing  round  upon  her,  “ you  intend  marrying  that 
old  goose  to  her.” 

I think  she  was  rather  glad  to  have  it  “ out  ” with 
me ; things  had  reached  a point  when  it  would  be  con- 
venient to  have  the  matter  recognized. 

“You  are  the  goose,”  she  replied,  with  a perfectly 
easy  laugh,  “ the  marriages  of  bishops  are  not  arranged 
for  them  by  young  ladies.” 


252 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvi 


“ You  do  not  deny  that  this  marriage  is  likely.” 

“ No,  I think  it  probable.  He  was  at  Lord  Wrekin’s 
and  paid  her  attention.  I have  no  doubt  that  his 
coming  to  the  Warden’s  was  his  own  idea,  and  that  it 
shows  he  has  made  up  his  mind.” 

I looked  around  the  pleasant  room  and  said 
abruptly — 

“ And  when  your  plans  are  crowned  with  success 
what  will  happen  to  Cross  Place  ? You  will  have  your 
home,  she  will  have  hers — is  this  to  be  mine  and 
Perkin’s?” 

“ Perkin  has  gained  this  great  scholarship,  and  this 
is  his  last  term  at  Abbot’s  School,  next  term  he  will  be 
at  Oxford ” 

“ And  is  he  to  have  no  home?  ” I interrupted  fiercely. 

“Of  course  he  would  spend  his  vacations  at  the 
Palace  with  Mamma,”  she  answered  coolly. 

“Would  he?  With  all  your  cleverness  there  are 
two  people  in  the  world  you  do  not  understand,  one  is 
your  brother  and  the  other  is  your  sister.  You  may 
be  certain  of  this,  that  Perkin  will  never  live  at  Rood 
Palace ” 

“ There  is  no  question  of  his  living  there.  He  will 
live  at  Oxford.” 

“ And  have  no  home ! ” I cried  bitterly.  “ Sylvia, 
why  cannot  I live  on  here,  and  make  it  a home  for 
him  ? ” 

“ That  is  nonsense.  How  could  you,  an  unmarried 
girl,  live  here  alone  ? — he  would  only  be  here  for  a few 
weeks  now  and  then.  Besides,  it  would  be  convenient 
to  let  Cross  Place;  it  would  let  furnished  for  a good 
rent,  and  it  would  be  much  better  for  Mamma  to  have 
the  money  as  a private  income ; I,  of  course,  would  need 


ch.  xxxvi]  MONKSBRIDGE  253 

none  of  it ; Perkin  will  be  well  off  with  his  scholarship, 

and  you ” 

“And  I?” 

“ Will  have  a house  and  an  income  of  your  own.’' 
“Will  I?  I told  you  that  there  were  two  people 
you  didn’t  understand,  and  I am  one  of  them.” 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 


At  that  moment  the  door  again  opened,  and  there 
entered  to  us  Mamma,  Lady  Monksbridge,  her  son,  and 
my  brother.  After  leaving  the  drawing-room,  Mamma 
had  met  Perkin  in  the  hall,  just  coming  in,  and  they 
had  stayed  thus,  talking;  a few  minutes  later  Lord  and 
Lady  Monksbridge  had  arrived. 

After  our  greetings  had  been  exchanged  Hampden 
said  aloud  so  all  might  hear,  though  ostensibly  to 
Sylvia — 

“ Inverchlory  is  coming  to  stay  with  my  mother  and 
me  next  week.  I have  asked  him  to  speak  at  a meeting 
in  Llanthamy  on  Thursday,  and  he  is  coming  to  us  on 
Wednesday.” 

Perkin  shot  a little  glance  at  me,  and  I saw  his  lips 
form  the  word  “ Telegram?  ” I nodded,  and  listened. 
Mamma,  I saw,  was  troubled  and  uneasy,  but  that  I 
thought  was  due  to  her  supposed  secret  about  the 
Bishop.  Perkin  also  looked  as  though  he  had  some- 
thing on  his  mind,  and  I thought  it  very  nice  of  him 
to  be  so  sympathetic  with  my  annoyance  about  Lord 
Inverchlory’s  coming. 

“I,”  said  my  brother-in-law  elect,  “shall  take  the 
Chair  at  the  meeting  and  introduce  him;  Inverchlory 
speaks  very  well.” 

“ Is  the  meeting  about  Nuns?  ” I asked. 

“ Nuns!  It  is  a political  meeting;  he  is  a Whig,  as 
I am.” 

“ Oh.  They  said  at  Severn  Court  that  he  could 
254 


255 


ch.  xxxvii]  MONKSBRIDGE 

only  make  speeches  about  the  Inspection  of  Convents.” 

Hampden  looked  annoyed,  and  I had  a shrewd 
suspicion  (and  a correct  one,  as  it  happened)  that  Lord 
Inverchlory  had  bargained  for  a free  hand,  and  would 
only  speak  on  Whig  politics  if  he  were  allowed  to  bring 
in  the  vital  question  of  Convent  inspection. 

“ Another  friend  of  ours  is  coming  to  the  neighbour- 
hood,” Hampden  went  on,  rather  hurriedly,  “ the 
Bishop  of  Lowminster  is  coming  to  Warden’s  Lodge  to 
preach  for  Dr.  FitzSimon  to  the  school.  There  will 
be  an  address  of  welcome,  the  Warden  tells  me,  and 
one  of  the  senior  boys  tvill  read  it — perhaps  Peter.” 
(Hampden  never  called  him  “ Perkin.”)  “ Now  that 
he  has  taken  the  Cardinal  Scholarship  he  is  quite  their 
big  gun.” 

“ It  certainly  will  not  be  read  by  me,”  Perkin 
answered;  and  I saw  at  once  that  something  was 
going  to  happen. 

“Why  shouldn’t  it  be  you?”  Lord  Monksbridge 
asked,  with  some  sharpness.  “ I believe  the  Warden 
intends  it.” 

Perkin  paused  for  a moment,  and  looked  at  Mamma, 
who  shook  her  head  dismally.  Then  he  spoke,  in  a low 
but  clear  voice  that  we  could  all  hear. 

“ Because,”  he  said,  “ I am  going  to  do  something 
that  will  make  it  impossible.  I think  you  are  right  in 
supposing  that  the  Warden  will  ask  me  to  read  the 
address — perhaps  he  will  do  so  when  I go  back  to 
College  now;  what  I shall  tell  him  will  make  it  im- 
possible. Probably  he  will  agree  that  I had  better 
return  home  at  once,  and  I shall  not  belong  to  Abbot’s 
next  week.” 

“What  does  all  this  mean?  ” Hampden  asked,  with 


256  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

a cold  annoyance.  “ You  choose  to  be  mysterious. 
Your  friends  will  be  much  surprised  to  learn  that  you 
can  have  anything  to  tell  the  Warden  which  would 
necessitate  your  leaving  the  school.” 

“ But  it  is  so.  I am  going  to  become  a Catholic.” 

Lady  Monksbridge  skipped  in  her  chair;  Mamma 
gave  a little  groan ; Sylvia  reddened  (and  I have  said 
how  seldom  she  flushed),  and  exclaimed — 

“ Idiot ! ” in  an  angrier  voice  than  I had  ever  heard 
her  use. 

Her  betrothed  put  on  a frown  that  was  not  unlike 
a scowl,  and  said — 

“ It  would  be  an  odd  subject  for  a jest;  but  I find 
it  hard  to  believe  you  serious.”  * 

“ I am  very  serious,”  Perkin  replied,  and  he  sighed 
as  he  spoke.  He  was  now  standing  behind  Mamma’s 
chair,  and  he  laid  a hand  gently  on  her  shoulder.  There 
was  half  the  room  between  him  and  me,  and  I thought 
how  lonely  he  looked. 

“ What  mad  whim  is  this  ? ” asked  Hampden,  with 
a sour  scorn. 

“ It  is  not  new.  It  has  been  coming  on  during 
many  months.” 

“ And  you  kept  it  a secret  till  now ! ” 

“ No.  As  soon  as  I thought  my  misgivings  might 
end  as  they  have  ended  I told  my  mother.  No  one 
else  had  any  right  to  know  till  I was  certain.  And  she 
would  feel  bound  in  honour  to  tell  no  one  else  till  I 
gave  her  leave.” 

“ Gave  her  leave,  indeed ! ” cried  Hampden. 

“ I thought  it  was  a fancy,  and  would  pass  away,” 
Mamma  murmured,  shaking  her  head  grievously. 

“ Of  course  you  judged  it  to  be  a fancy — it  was 


257 


ch.  xxxvn]  MONKSBRIDGE 

a fancy,  it  is  a fancy,”  Hampden  said,  with  loud 
impatience.  “ And  you,  Sir,  behaved  dishonourably  in 
binding  her  to  silence  on  her  honour.” 

Then  Perkin  flushed  also.  “ I did  not  bind  her,” 
he  answered  quietly;  “ I can  trust  my  mother’s  honour 
without  binding  her.” 

And  I saw  that  he  pressed  the  hand  that  rested  on 
her  shoulder  gently  down. 

“ She  was  mistaken.  She  should  have  consulted 
me.  I regard  myself  as  her  eldest  son.  I consider 
that  you  should  have  consulted  me.” 

“ You  may  regard  yourself  as  her  eldest  son;  but  I 
regard  myself  as  her  only  son,  and  what  I didn’t  tell 
my  own  sisters  I never  even  dreamt  of  telling  you. 
It  did  not  concern  you  at  all.” 

“ But  it  did.  It  does.  It  concerns  all  who  are  con- 
nected with  your  family.  Your  selfish  folly,  should  you 
persist  in  it,  may  (probably  will)  affect  most  lamentably 
your  mother  and  one  of  your  sisters.  But  there  is 
room  to  hope  that  you  will  discard  the  folly — prob- 
ably no  one  except  ourselves  is  aware  of  your  ab- 
surdity.” 

“No  one  but  yourselves  is  aware  that  I intend  to 
become  a Catholic;  but  the  Warden  will  be  aware 
to-day.” 

“ And  you  intend  to  tell  him  ? ” 

“ I have  told  you  so.” 

“And  how  will  you  excuse  yourself  to  him?  What 
explanation  of  your  misconduct  shall  you  have  to 
offer?  ” 

“ Lord  Monksbridge,  you  may  be  my  mother’s  eldest 
son,  but  you  have  mistaken  her  if  you  think  it  will 
please  her  to  hear  you  speak  to  her  own  son  as  you 


258  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

allow  yourself  to  do.  She  has  no  misconduct  to  accuse 
me  of ” 

Mamma  wept  and  shook  her  head.  “ Never,”  she 
was  beginning,  but  Hampden  roughly  interposed. 

“ But  it  is  misconduct.  And  heinous  misconduct 
too.  There  is  no  excuse  for  it.” 

“ I offer  you  no  excuse.  If  the  Warden  should  treat 
me  as  you  venture  to  do,  I will  give  him  no  explanation 
either.  I shall  be  surprised  if  he  does.  I believe  he 

will  be  angry ” 

“ And  very  rightly ! ” 

“ But  in  his  anger  he  will  behave  properly.”  (Lord 
Monksbridge  jumped  with  indignation,  and  if  he  had 
jumped  to  the  moon,  and  stayed  there,  I should  only 
have  been  sorry  for  the  man  in  the  moon.)  “ And  any 
questions  he  may  put  to  me  as  to  the  causes  of  my 
change  I will  answer  as  well  as  I can.  He  has  been  a 
kind  master,  and  I shall  be  sorry  to  displease  him.” 

“ You  will  do  more  than  displease — you  will  dis- 
grace him.  To  the  Warden  of  Abbot’s  School  it  will 
be  a deep  disgrace  that  one  of  his  pupils  should  prove 
renegade  to  the  religion  of  that  school.” 

For  the  first  time  Perkin  smiled,  and  he  had  the 
most  sweet  and  charming  smile  that  I ever  knew. 

“ The  School,”  he  said  simply,  “ existed  many 
centuries  before  Dr.  FitzSimon  became  its  Warden.  It 
was  founded  for  Catholics,  and  we  are  bragging  of  our 
Founder  eternally;  he  was  first  an  Abbot  and  then  a 
Cardinal,  and  always  a Catholic — it  can  hardly  disgrace 
him  or  his  school  that  one  of  his  boys  should  turn  to 
his  own  faith.  They  told  me  history  was  where  I could 
probably  do  best;  and  I studied  it,  and  first  of  all  the 
history  of  our  School  itself  and  of  its  Founder,  of  what 


259 


CH.  xxxvii ] MONKSBRIDGE 

he  founded  it  for,  of  what  he  willed  to  have  taught  in 
it — which  was  first  and  foremost  the  religion  he  held 
dear  above  everything  else,  the  Catholic  faith;  and, 
the  more  I studied  what  that  faith  was,  the  more  I 
loved  it  and  our  great  Founder,  the  more  true  I found 
his  belief,  the  more  outrageous  and  false  and  mean,  and 
baseless  the  charges  made  against  it.  By  becoming  a 
Catholic  I know  I must  leave  my  school  (a  dear  school 
to  me  now:  though  I did  not  want  to  go  there  when 
Sylvia  first  took  the  idea  into  her  head) ” 

And  here  Hampden  looked  but  grimly  at  Sylvia, 
and  she,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  repented  of  one 
of  her  own  successes. 

“ I know  I must  leave  it,  because  there  is  no  place  in 
it  for  any  one  who  has  come  tobelievewhatitsFounder 
believed,  and  founded  to  have  taught  there.  I have 
earned  his  benefits  and  must  relinquish  them,  because  I 
am  of  his  faith;  on  his  money  I could  go  to  a Univer- 
sity, but  I must  not,  because  I earnestly  hold  all  that  he 
laid  down  should  be  expounded  in  certain  theses  by 
the  winner  of  his  munificent  scholarships.  I know  this 
must  be  so,  but  I am  not  willing  to  let  you  say  that  I 
disgrace  the  Cardinal’s  Red  Gown  in  joining  the 
Cardinal’s  Church.” 

“ No  one,”  I said  loudly,  “ who  knows  you  would 
ever  think  you  could  disgrace  yourself  or  anybody.” 

Lord  Monksbridge  was  very  angry.  Was  I,  Lord 
Inverchlory’s  choice,  going  to  turn  Catholic  too? 

“ Marjory!  ” he  said,  “ you  have  wisely  kept  silence 
till  now;  it  is  a pity  you  have  broken  it.  Your  brother 
is  disgracing  himself — and  all  of  us.  As  you  yourself 
may  feel.” 

“ I have  been  silent,”  I cried,  “ far  too  long.  If  I 


2<X> 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

said  nothing,  it  was  because  I saw  that  my  brother 
could  very  well  answer  anything  you  might  say  to  him. 
He  is  only  a boy,  and  you  are  a man;  if  I were  a man 
I should  be  ashamed  to  hector  and  scold  a boy;  but, 
loud  as  you  scold,  he  has  had  the  best  of  it.” 

“ Marjory,”  Sylvia  said  impatiently,  “ you  had  better 
hold  your  tongue.  Why  should  you  interfere  when  I 
don’t?  Why  should  you  put  yourself  forward?” 

“ It  is  Hampden  who  is  interfering,  and  I am  free 
to  tell  him  so,  though  you,  perhaps,  are  not.” 

I believe  that  Sylvia  herself  thought  him  interfering, 
but  she  said — 

“ Some  one  must  speak : Perkin  is  misbehaving,  and 
he  must  be  told  of  it;  there  is  no  other  man  to  do  it, 
and  it  is  more  a man’s  work.” 

“ It  is  not  my  idea  of  a man’s  work  to  browbeat  a 
boy,”  I repeated  fiercely ; “ and  I cannot  see  that  Perkin 
is  bound  to  submit.  If  Hampden  tried  to  interfere  in 
my  affairs  I would  tell  him  that  they  did  not  concern 
him  in  the  least,  and  I do  not  see  that  Perkin’s  affairs 
concern  him  either.” 

“ You  allow  yourself,”  said  Lord  Monksbridge,  in  a 
sort  of  cold  white  heat,  “ to  speak  improperly.  You 
and  your  brother  are  always  confederates.  No  doubt 
you  have  known  for  months  the  disgrace  he  was 
plotting  for  us  all.” 

“ That  is  not  true.  But,  Hampden,  I will  not  let  you 
speak  of  disgrace  and  my  brother  together.  You  cannot 
insult  him  without  insulting  his  mother  and  sisters.” 

“ I think,”  said  Hampden,  obstinately,  “ any  family 
disgraced  one  of  whose  members  turns  Catholic.” 
Mamma  moaned,  and  could  only  shake  her  head 
again  in  piteous  protest.  Perkin  stood  quite  still  and 


ch.  xxxvn]  MONKSBRIDGE  261 

kept  silent.  Lady  Monksbridge  made  uneasy  rustlings 
in  her  crepe.  Sylvia  bit  her  lip,  and  the  flush  on  her 
neck  spread  upwards : her  lover  had  not  sense  enough 
to  see  that  he  was  making  her  also  angry. 

“ And  how,”  he  asked  Perkin,  abruptly,  “ do  you 
propose  to  live?  Your  future  was  assured : in  sacrific- 
ing all  the  singular  advantages  of  your  present  position 
(of  which  sacrifice  you  talk  so  magnanimously),  how  do 
you  propose  to  live?  You  were  provided  for;  do  you 
intend  to  hang  upon  your  mother’s  small  means?  You 
may  be  certain  that  / shall  do  nothing  for  you.” 

Mamma  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair  and  stared  at 
him.  His  mother  gasped. 

“ Oh ! ’Ampden ! ” she  cried  out,  and  her  face  ex- 
pressed a simple  horror.  His  face  reddened  chiefly 
at  the  sound  of  her  solecism  in  pronunciation : he  could 
hardly  remember  having  ever  heard  her  drop  an  “ h.” 
For  my  part  I had  always  been  sure  she  was  a lady, 
though  in  his  heart  the  son,  who  really  loved  her, 
thought  her  vulgar;  and  neither  Eton  nor  Christ 
Church  had  made  him,  who  looked  distinguished 
among  very  fine  folks,  a gentleman.  And,  clever  as 
he  was  held  to  be,  he  was  stupid  too;  he  had  not  the 
least  idea  that  Sylvia  herself  would  ruthlessly  pun- 
ish him. 

“ You  do  not,”  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  unim- 
passioned disapproval,  “understand  us.  I thought  it 
right  to  let  you  speak  to  him  ” (glancing  at  Perkin) 
“ because  you  are  a man,  and  should  know  best  what 
to  say.  I told  Marjory  she  was  wrong  to  interrupt. 
But  you  give  them  both  the  advantage,  because  you 
speak  wrongly  to  them.  We  are  all  Auberons,  and 
you  do  not  understand  us.  We  are  not  accustomed 


262 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

to  hear  the  word  ‘ disgrace  ’ attached  to  our  name. 
And  when  you  talk  of  one  of  us  expecting  you  to  r do 
anything  for  him  ’ you  show  that  you  quite  misunder- 
stand the  situation.  Perkin,  with  his  Roman  Catholic 
nonsense,  is  behaving  like  a fool.  You  had  a right 
to  say  he  is  misbehaving;  but  if  you  imagine  that  my 
marriage  with  you  was  supposed  by  him,  or  by  any 
one  of  us,  to  ‘ do  anything  ’ for  any  single  member 
of  my  family,  you  show  that  you  have  altogether  mis- 
understood the  state  of  things.” 

She  paused,  intentionally  I think,  for  a moment,  and 
I knew  that  Perkin  was  looking  down,  like  me,  abashed, 
and  much  more  troubled  by  her  speech  than  by  any- 
thing Hampden  had  said — troubled,  not  by  her  calling 
him  a fool,  but  by  the  smooth  hardness  with  which  she 
punished  her  betrothed. 

It  is  useless  to  repeat  that  I never  could  and  never 
should  understand  Sylvia  or  pretend  to  foresee  what 
she  would  do  or  say  next.  Utterly  worldly  I knew 
her  to  be,  full  of  schemes  and  plans,  with  as  little 
conscience  as  any  thoroughly  respectable  young  woman 
could  be,  and  yet  with  a peculiar  standard  of  her  own, 
of  which  the  man  who  loved  her  had  no  discernment. 
Pride  was  her  conscience,  and  it  did  not  forbid  her 
making  worldly  plans,  but  it  was  up  in  arms  when  her 
plans  were  misunderstood. 

“ For  any  one  of  my  family,”  she  went  on,  after 
her  pause,  which  was  as  ruthless  and  calculated  as  any- 
thing she  said.  “ Did  you  suppose  that  my  brother 
would  count  himself  a penny  the  richer  for  having  you 
for  his  sister’s  husband?  That  Marjory  would?  That 
Mamma  ever  imagined  that  her  resources  would  be 
affected  by  the  marriage  of  either  of  her  daughters? 


ch.  xxxvii]  MONKSBRIDGE  263 

Their  position  was  theirs  before  our  engagement,  and 
is  the  same  still.  It  is  yours  that  has  changed 

I felt  my  face  turn  crimson,  and  I could  hear  Per- 
kin’s movement  of  extreme  misery:  but  Sylvia  was 
not  miserable  at  all.  Hampden  was  horribly  in  love, 
and  she  could  never  be  in  love;  half-measures  she 
never  approved,  and  circumstances  had  brought  into 
her  pitiless,  exquisitely  pretty  hand  a weapon  she  was 
determined  to  use,  once  and  for  all,  effectually — else 
all  her  future  position  might  suffer. 

“ It  is  yours  that  has  changed,”  she  said,  quite 
placidly.  “ When  you  said  that  to  my  brother  about 
hanging  on  to  you  I saw  you  mistook  the  position.  I 
am  not  defending  him,  he  is  utterly  senseless;  but  I 
will  not  let  you  mistake  the  nature  of  your  connection 
with  the  Auberons.  Our  engagement  has  not  altered 
the  condition  of  the  Auberons  in  the  least ” 

It  was  Perkin  who  interrupted,  as  if  she  had  hit 
him  across  the  face  with  a whip. 

“ For  God’s  sake,  Sylvia,”  he  cried  out,  “ stop ! It 
is  ghastly.” 

But  Hampden  was  not  in  love  with  him,  only  with 
Sylvia,  and  it  was  at  him  that  he  darted  a poisonous 
look,  because  he  had  been  the  innocent  occasion  of  this. 

“ I am  not,”  said  Sylvia,  “ talking  to  you,  Perkin. 
You  are  misbehaving.  But  I will  not  sanction  mis- 
takes.” 

I hoped  she  had  done,  Heaven  knows  she  had  said 
enough;  surely  this  wretched  man  must  see  that  she 
would  not  have  said  what  I have  written  down  had  she 
loved  him  in  the  least.  He  did  see  it,  but  he  was  mean 
enough  to  want  to  marry  her  without  her  loving  him, 
and  she  knew  it  perfectly.  And  she  fully  intended 


264  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

to  be  his  wife,  but  she  would  not  have  him  mistake 
her. 

“ Surely,”  she  said,  looking  fully  at  him  ( I could 
not  bear  to,  nor  could  Perkin),  “ surely  you  have  not 
been  thinking  I was  going  to  marry  you  for  your 
wealth,  or  for  your  title ! ” 

If  she  had  utterly  despised  money  and  rank,  she 
could  not  have  alluded  to  his  wealth  and  title  with  a 
colder  contempt.  And  yet  she  was  not  acting,  in  fact 
she  never  could  have  acted  well,  if  acting  means  the 
speaking  in  a character  which  is  not  one’s  own,  but 
assumed;  the  only  part  she  could  ever  play  was  her 
own,  for  no  other  interested  her. 

He  tried  to  protest,  but  I could  see,  and  Perkin,  I 
knew,  must  see,  that  he  had  in  fact  supposed  that  it 
was  for  his  money  and  title  she  was  willing  to  be  his 
wife.  It  made  her  angry;  not  that  she  was  outraged 
by  the  assumption  of  love  having  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it;  that  was  the  terrible  part  of  it — of  love  for 
him  she  never  thought  for  a moment,  and  she  as 
plainly  took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  never  dreamed 
of  her  being  in  love  with  him — it  made  her  angry  be- 
cause he  had  not,  or  pretended  that  he  had  not,  under- 
stood her  real  plans  and  purposes. 

Perkin,  I am  certain,  was  truly  sorry  for  him,  and 
so,  in  a way,  was  I.  More  by  instinct  than  by  looking 
at  him,  I felt  how  he  must  be  looking,  and  yet  I 
despised  him  in  his  misery,  because  he  was  mean 
enough  to  want  as  much  as  ever  to  marry  her;  and, 
besides,  he  had  been  prompt  to  browbeat  Perkin,  de- 
fenceless and  a boy,  but  when  Sylvia  turned  upon  him 
he  was  not  so  manly  as  Perkin  had  been.  Of  her  I 
tried  not  to  think  at  all;  I could  not  think  of  her  with- 


ch.  xxxvii ] MONKSBRIDGE  265 

out  being  ashamed  of  her.  I had  known  well,  at  Sev- 
ern Court,  that  Hermione,  in  all  she  had  said,  had 
really  meant  that  Sylvia  was  not  a lady — that  was  why 
I had  been  angry,  and  had,  for  the  moment,  hated 
Hermione.  I knew  now  that  if  I let  myself  think  of 
Sylvia,  the  horrible  question  would  ask  itself,  against 
my  will,  in  my  mind,  was  she  a lady?  But,  instead  of 
thinking,  I had  to  listen  to  her,  and  she  had  not,  even 
yet,  quite  finished.  Before  she  married  him  she  chose 
that  he  should  understand,  if  he  pretended  not  to  un- 
derstand, she  would  make  him  abandon  that  pretence. 

“ Your  wealth  and  title!  ” she  exclaimed,  lifting  one 
eyebrow,  instead  of  shrugging  her  shoulders,  “ I will 

tell  you  what  I thought  of  them ” 

“ Sylvia ! ” Perkin  cried  out,  in  a sort  of  agony, 
“ Sylvia,  it  is  hideous.  Stop ! I can’t  stand  it.” 

“ Then  you’d  better  go  away,”  she  answered  coolly ; 
and  he  went ; but  she  said  what  she  intended,  while  he 
went,  and  after  he  had  fled. 

“ I will  tell  you  what  I thought  of  them,”  she  re- 
peated, smiling  on  her  lover;  and  it  was  characteristic 
of  her  that  she  did  not  cite  me  as  a witness,  relying 
as  she  did  so  completely  on  herself.  “ From  the  mo- 
ment I first  met  you,  before  I had  met  you,  the  Monks- 
bridge  money  seemed  to  me  a vulgarity,  and  the 
Monksbridge  title  an  absurdity.” 

Mamma  burst  out  crying  openly,  and  Lady  Monks- 
bridge sat  trembling  in  her  chair,  but  Sylvia  did  not 
interrupt  herself. 

“ You  may  judge,”  she  went  on,  serenely,  “ how  far 
they  attracted  me!  You  soon  showed  that  you  would 
wish  to  marry  me,  and  I was  not  surprised  when  you 
asked  me : I agreed,  for  I had  thought  of  it  all,  and  I 


266 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxvii 

knew  you  needed  some  one  to  help  you.  You  are 
ambitious,  and  you  are  not  content  to  go  on  in  the 
position  you  inherit.  But  ambition  is  not  knowledge : 
without  help  you  would  go  on  trying  in  vain.  With 
my  help  it  would  not  be  in  vain.  I determined  to  show 
you  it  was  so,  and  I have  shown  you.  You  have  seen 
me  in  different  surroundings  from  these,  and  you  know 
very  well  that  the  position  you  saw  me  hold  there  was 
my  own  position;  it  was  Miss  Auberon  you  saw  there; 
the  consideration  you  saw  me  held  in  was  given  to 
me,  to  Sylvia  Auberon,  not  to  your  wife — I am  not 
your  wife  even  now.  If  I were  never  to  marry  you 
at  all,  it  would  not  take  anything  away  from  my  posi- 
tion: but  it  might  reduce  yours  to  what  I found  it. 
It  is  not  now  what  I found  it.  You  know  that  very 
well : and  you  know  that  it  was  I who  changed  it.  You 
are  only  a man;  could  you  go  knocking  at  the  doors 
of  great  houses  asking  to  be  let  in?  I could  let  you 
in:  and  I did.  And,  that  I might  do  it,  I would  not 
marry  you  out  of  hand.  As  your  wife,  I could  not 
have  helped  you  as  Miss  Auberon  could,  as  she  did 
— Miss  Auberon  with  no  title  and  no  money.  Now  I 
think  you  must  understand.  If  I marry  you,  your 
wealth  will  be  all  yours.  I can  bring  nothing  to  it, 
and  can  claim  no  share  of  it.  Your  title  will  be  yours 
too,  and  I shall  be  called  by  it,  though  no  one  will 
forget  that  I was  Sylvia  Auberon,  and  am  only  Lady 
Monksbridge  by  marriage.  But  with  me  as  your  wife, 
neither  your  money  nor  your  title  will  make  anybody 
laugh.” 

Perhaps  the  reader,  if  ever  there  is  one.  will  con- 
clude that  Sylvia  never  would  be  Lady  Monksbridge ; 
nor  w'ould  she  have  been,  I think,  if  the  second  Lord 


ch.  xxxvii]  MONKSBRIDGE  267 

Monksbridge  had  been  worth  his  father’s  little  finger. 
But,  then,  he  wasn’t;  and  the  next  Lord  and  Lady 
Monksbridge  were  Hampden  and  Sylvia,  a most  re- 
spectable couple,  admitted  everywhere,  a good  deal 
sought  after,  of  political  and  social  importance,  never 
greatly  liked,  but  never  quite  disliked,  blameless  in 
conduct,  and  of  most  admired  decorum;  the  Marchion- 
ess (she  died  one),  to  all  seeming,  the  most  submissive 
of  wives,  her  lord  neither  tyrannical  nor  hen-pecked. 
Her  beauty  never  failed  or  flagged,  time  could  write 
no  wrinkles  on  her  brow,  for  wrinkles  mostly  mean 
something;  and  in  his  heart  her  husband  (though  the 
subject  was  never  again  mentioned  between  them) 
knew  perfectly  that  all  his  great  success  was  owing 
to  the  former  Miss  Auberon’s  fixed  resolve  to  take  him 
and  his  own  false  position  in  hand. 

The  world  can,  I think,  be  bought,  if  you  are  will- 
ing to  pay  its  price,  which  is  your  own  self. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 


When  Perkin  fled  from  the  sound  of  his  sister’s  voice 
he  was  not  in  a very  fit  state  for  another  battle  on  his 
own  account;  but  he  had  to  face  one.  He  had  hardly 
got  back  to  college  before  the  Warden  sent  for  him, 
and  with  urbane  smiles  informed  him  that  the  Bishop 
of  Lowminster  was  coming  to  the  school,  and  that 
an  address  of  welcome  would  be  presented  to  his  lord- 
ship,  which  address  he  had  decided  should  be  read  by 
Auberon  himself. 

“ Stephenson,”  he  remarked,  “ is  Captain  of  the 
school,  but  Stephenson  has  the  mumps,  and  is  on  the 
sick-list.  It  will  therefore  fall  to  you  to  perform  this 
honourable  duty,  for,  though  Hawkins  is  next  in 
seniority  to  Stephenson,  his  unfortunate  stammer 
renders  him  unfit.” 

“ Sir,”  Perkin  suggested,  with  due  deference,  “ I 
don’t  think  Hawkins  would  stammer  when  he  only  has 
to  read  something — it  is  when  he  is  talking  that  he 
stutters.” 

“ I could  not  trust  him.  He  often  stammers  fright- 
fully in  calling  the  roll.  An  address  badly  read  is 
worse  than  nothing.”  (The  Warden  had  composed 
the  address  himself,  and  was  determined  it  should  not 
be  spoiled.)  “ It  is  my  wish  that  you  should  read  it: 
I mentioned  it  to  the  Second  Master,  and  he  quite 
agrees  with  me.” 

Then  Perkin  told  his  lamentable  story. 

The  Warden  was  by  no  means  an  ill-tempered  man, 
26s 


ch.  xxxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE  269 

and  he  fancied  he  was  fond  of  Auberon;  the  truth 
being  that  he  was  proud  of  him,  and  confident  of  his 
achieving  academic  honours  at  Oxford,  which  would 
reflect  lustre  on  the  school  and  its  head ; but  he  listened 
with  a horror  that  was  deeply  tinged  with  disgust. 
He  was  himself  what  people  called  a Broad  Church- 
man, which  meant,  in  his  case  at  all  events,  that  he 
was  neither  High  nor  Evangelical.  Evangelicalism  he 
mildly  condemned  as  “ enthusiasm,”  and  such  people 
as  John  Wesley,  he  thought,  had  never  had  any  busi- 
ness in  the  English  Church;  but  neither  did  he  think 
that  Puseyites  had  any  business  there.  The  whole 
Puseyite  movement  he  disliked  extremely  as  an  at- 
tempt to  discredit  the  comfortable  Erastianism  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  to  revert  to  an  ecclesiasticism 
of  which  it  had  been  freed  by  the  Reformation.  He 
did  not  believe  in  the  least  in  sacraments  (though  he 
would  have  thought  any  man  disreputable  who  refused 
to  have  his  children  baptized),  and  considered  the  oc- 
casional reception  of  the  Lord’s  Supper  a sign  of 
conformity  incumbent  on  all  the  clergy,  and  particu- 
larly creditable  in  those  of  the  laity  who  observed 
the  practice ; but  he  was  well  aware  that  many  Cabinet 
Ministers  and  other  distinguished  persons  never  did 
observe  that  practice,  and  was  not  disposed  to  think 
them  on  that  account  less  satisfactory  members  of  the 
Established  Church.  He  naturally  remembered  his 
own  ordination,  first  as  deacon,  then  as  priest,  but 
he  did  not  consider  himself  a priest,  except  in  the 
sense  that  he  was  perfectly  eligible  to  become  a bishop 
— which  the  Rev.  Josiah  Bibble,  of  the  too  adjacent 
Wesleyan  Chapel,  of  course,  was  not.  He  was  also 
aware  that  at  present  he  could  not  confirm  the  boys 


270  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

in  his  own  school,  nor  ordain  young  men  who  aspired 
to  the  clerical  office;  only  bishops  could  do  so;  but 
he  did  not  imagine  that,  if  he  should  be  selected  to  fill 
any  vacant  see,  and  receive  the  necessary  consecration, 
any  new  spiritual  powers  would  have  accrued  to  him; 
he  would  merely  be  authorized  to  perform  certain 
ceremonies,  which  he  had  now  no  authority  to  per- 
form. 

He  had  for  Dissenters  no  odium  theologicum,  though 
he  looked  down  upon  them  as  under-educated  persons, 
mostly  of  the  lower  middle-classes;  nor  did  he  really 
believe  that  they  lacked  any  spiritual  privileges  that 
would  have  been  theirs  had  they  belonged,  like  him- 
self, to  a regular  Church,  with  bishops  and  priests  and 
two  sacraments.  All  the  same,  he  had  a warm  admi- 
ration for  the  Established  Church  because  it  was  es- 
tablished, and  was,  he  felt,  an  integral  part  of  Eng- 
land, which  he  was  conscious  was  in  every  way 
superior  to  all  other  countries.  The  Church  of  Eng- 
land, he  knew,  had  been  made  by  England  herself  for 
her  own  use  (and  he  thoroughly  approved  of  the  use 
of  home  manufactures;  though,  being  free  from  bigo- 
try of  any  sort,  he  would  not  insist  that  his  own  port 
wine  should  be  grown  in  these  islands)  ; and  he  almost 
loved  her,  because  she  completely  fulfilled  the  purposes 
for  which  she  had  been  made.  No  nation,  he  was 
sure,  could  long  exist  without  religion.  France  had 
tried,  and  had  failed  so  completely  as  to  have  been 
forced  to  fall  back,  fante  de  mieux,  on  the  religion 
she  had  so  noisily  declared  outlaw  and  defunct.  Eng- 
land could  never  exist  without  religion,  but  she  had 
known  precisely  what  religion,  and  how  much  of  it, 
she  wanted,  and  the  Established  Church  was  the  calm 


271 


ch.  xxxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE 

result.  The  genius  of  England,  he  felt,  was  practical 
( i.e . unsupernatural),  and  the  religion  that  would  serve 
her  turn  must  be  practical,  i.e.  respectable,  unsuper- 
natural, and  what  eccentric  persons  might  call  Eras- 
tian,  that  is  to  say,  a State  Department,  like  the  For- 
eign Office,  or  the  Treasury.  A State  Department 
has  high  sanction  and  authority,  and  is  unlikely  to  fall, 
or  remain,  a prey  to  faddists.  And  in  England  there 
could  only  be  one  real  Church,  in  Dr.  FitzSimon’s  idea 
of  a Church.  That  was  why  he  despised  Noncon- 
formists; for  Scottish  Presbyterians  he  had  quite  a 
different  feeling,  corresponding  to  their  different  po- 
sition. Some  English  Dissenters  might  teach  pre- 
cisely what  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  teaches,  but  in 
England  they  were  mere  sectaries,  heterogeneous  to 
the  State.  North  of  the  Tweed,  that  teaching  was  not 
alien,  but  suited  to  the  natives  of  a subordinate  por- 
tion of  Her  Majesty’s  realm  that  had  for  centuries 
liked  its  own  meagre,  chill,  and  ill-furnished  concep- 
tion of  Christianity.  The  Warden  did  not  despise 
Scotch  Presbyterianism,  he  merely  congratulated  him- 
self on  being  a South  Briton.  As  for  Catholicity,  he 
had  never  considered  it  with  any  polemic  fury;  it 
was  outside  his  mark.  Being  English,  he  was  not  in- 
clined to  waste  himself  in  irritation  against  foreign 
customs.  They  were  inferior,  and  there  was  an  end 
of  it.  He  had  travelled  for  a few  weeks,  on  his  mar- 
riage, and  had  been  convinced  that  the  languages  of 
the  Continent  were  but  awkward  mediums  for  the  ex- 
pression of  British  needs  and  wishes,  and  that  foreign 
meals,  foreign  beds,  and  foreign  amusements  were 
odd  and  unsatisfactory.  Catholicity  might  suit  na- 
tions that  breakfasted  at  noon,  and  had  no  real  break- 


2J2 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

fast  at  all,  that  needed  only  one  other  meal  that  was 
neither  dinner  nor  supper,  and  was  followed  by  no 
temperately  protracted  discussion  of  port  wine. 
Catholicism  was  apparently  a part  of  the  inscrutable, 
but  not  objectionable,  decree  of  Providence  that  made 
the  Continent  continental  and  inferior,  that  left  Eng- 
land splendidly  insular  and  Protestant. 

Of  course,  the  Warden  was  old-fashioned.  He  was 
not  Broad  in  the  later  sense.  He  did  not  consider  that 
it  was  the  duty  of  a “ Broad  ” ecclesiastic  to  preach  and 
print  himself  in  venomous  sneers  against  Christianity. 
England  was  Christian,  and  therefore  Christianity,  far 
from  being  ridiculous  and  effete,  was  very  becoming 
in  all  respectable  Englishmen.  To  preach  on  Easter 
Sunday  against  the  Resurrection  of  Christ  he  would 
have  thought  indecent : in  fact,  his  tone  of  mind  was 
far  from  being  irreverent  or  destructive.  All  that 
called  for  destruction  had  been  destroyed,  for  good 
and  all,  at  the  Reformation.  He  was  very  far  from 
being  irreligiously  minded.  Religion,  he  was  certain, 
was  a sine  qua  non  in  a reasonable,  permanent  State, 
and  he  had  a decent  consciousness  that  a State’s  reli- 
gion must  be  expressed  in  the  speech  and  life  of  its 
ministers — its  ordained  ministers : as  to  the  other  sort 
of  Ministers  it  behoved  them  to  live  decently  too,  and 
to  speak  with  accordant  decency.  The  Warden  would 
not  refuse  to  help  them  with  his  vote,  or  to  be  helped 
by  them  in  turn,  though  he  understood  that  their  lives 
were  privately  scandalous,  and  that  they  were,  in  fact, 
unbelievers. 

And  now  a boy,  and  a boy  in  his  own  school,  must, 
forsooth,  announce  to  him,  the  Warden,  his  decision 
to  leave  the  Church  of  England  and  enroll  himself 


ch.  xxxviii ] MONKSBRIDGE  273 

under  the  alien  banner  of  Rome.  He  was  not  an  ill- 
tempered  man,  but  his  temper  was  sorely  tried. 

“ A Roman  Catholic ! ” he  cried,  with  extreme  dis- 
gust. “ Become  a Roman  Catholic ! Become  one ! 
One  of  Abbot’s  Scholars — a Cardinal’s  Exhibitioner 
and  Scholar — become  one ! ” 

How,  urged  Perkin,  with  a meekness  very  different 
from  the  rather  proud  independence  he  had  shown  of 
Lord  Monksbridge’s  opinion, — how,  he  pleaded,  could 
he  be  a Catholic  except  by  becoming  one,  and  how 
could  he  go  on  calling  himself  a Protestant  when  in 
faith  and  conviction  he  was  a Catholic? 

“ Become  a Catholic ! ” cried  the  Warden  again. 
“ Good  gracious ! Become  one ! There  are  people  who 
were  born  so — for  the  accident  of  birth  they  are  not 
responsible;  Norfolk  Howards  and  such  like:  but  to 
become  one;  it  is  preposterous.” 

He  spoke  of  the  unlucky  victims  of  heredity  who 
had  been  born  Catholic  as  he  might  have  spoken  of 
families  born  with  hare-lips — would  any  sane  man 
ever  slit  his  own  upper  lip  on  purpose? 

“ Why  should  you  ‘ call  yourself  a Protestant  ’ ? 
Why  should  you  call  yourself  anything?  At  your  age 
it  is  not  expected  you  should  call  yourself  anything — 
it  is  enough  you  should  be  a Protestant,”  he  protested, 
rubbing  a sleek  white  hand  through  his  hair  as  if  the 
irritation  were  there. 

“ But,  sir,  Pm  not  a Protestant.  I don’t  believe  in 
it.  I am  a Catholic ” 

“ You  mean  you  have  been  . . . been  initiated, 

already!  When?  Where?  How?  Good  gra- 
cious ! ” 

“ No,  sir.  I meant  that  I am  a Catholic  by  belief. 


274 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

I have  not  been  received  into  the  Catholic  Church,  or 
even  instructed,  yet.” 

“ ‘ By  belief ! ’ ‘ Belief  ’ indeed.  Really,  Auberon, 
I’m  ashamed  of  you.  Had  you  been  properly  occu- 
pied with  your  studies  you  would  not  have  had  leisure 
for  such  irrelevant  considerations;  you  would  have 
believed  what  others  of  your  age  and  in  your  position 
are  content  to  believe — what  their  responsible  guardi- 
ans and  superiors  believe.  Do  you  suppose  my  sons 
are  considering  and  debating  what  it  is  they  should 
believe  or  disbelieve  ? ” 

Perkin  was  far  from  supposing  that  any  of  the 
Warden’s  sons  had  ever  devoted  an  hour  of  any  day 
of  his  life  to  any  “ consideration  or  debate  ” concern- 
ing religion;  but  he  did  not  say  so. 

“ No,”  cried  their  father,  accepting  Perkin’s  sub- 
missive silence  as  sufficient  disclaimer.  “ Of  course 
not.  They  are  healthy,  normal  lads.” 

No  one  could  look  healthier  than  Perkin;  he  only 
failed  to  be  normal  in  that  his  active  and  alert  mind, 
set  on  certain  studies  by  his  superiors  themselves,  had 
found  there  food  for  considerations  of  absorbing  in- 
terest and,  as  he  thought,  importance.  He  was  only 
abnormal  in  that  sort  of  almost  passionate  consistency 
and  devotion  to  truth  of  which  I have  spoken  before. 

“ I never  thought,”  said  the  Warden,  regarding  his 
pupil  with  reproachful  disappointment,  “ that  you 
were  morbid.” 

Poor  Perkin ! With  all  his  vigorous  youth,  his  look 
of  exuberant  health  and  spirits,  his  tall  and  sinewy 
athletic  form, — certainly  the  Warden  might  be  ex- 
cused for  having  failed  to  think  of  him  as  a morbid 
boy. 


275 


ch.  xxxviii ] MONKSBRIDGE 

“ I have  always  understood,”  the  Doctor  declared, 
“ that  you  were  a merry  lad ; you  shared,  as  it  was 
reported  to  me,  with  wholesome  zest  and  capacity  in 
the  sports  and  games — the  legitimate  relaxations  from 
graver  duties.  Such  vagrant  considerations  as  you 
now  hint  at,  debatings  as  to  belief  (a  boy’s  belief!  the 
theological  speculations  of  a lad!)  are  not  legitimate 
relaxations  from  the  studies  which  constitute  the  busi- 
ness and  duty  of  your  present  period  of  existence; 
but  illicit  dissipations,  stolen  wanderings,  most  lamen- 
table aberrations.  Most  lamentable : most  deplorable. 
Perhaps  I err  in  speaking  with  this  reasoned  calm- 
ness,” cried  the  fuming  Warden.  “ It  might  well  ap- 
pear to  be  rather  my  duty,  as  it  is  my  right,  to  adopt  a 
tone  of  heavier,  more  magisterial  displeasure.” 

And  he  whisked  about  upon  his  own  axis  till  his 
back  was  turned  to  Perkin,  and  his  face  was  to  the 
chimney-piece — adorned  with  two  busts,  one  of  the 
great  Gibbon,  and  one  of  Minerva. 

Minerva,  indeed,  never  turned  Catholic,  and  her 
effigy  suggested  no  argument  specially  appropriate — 
except  that  irrefragable  one  that,  if  young  Auberon 
had  attended  exclusively,  as  he  ought,  to  the  heathen 
classics,  he  would  not  have  debauched  his  mind  by 
these  puerile  questions  of  Christian  ecclesiasticism. 
But  Gibbon’s  fat  face  did  suggest  something. 

“ Auberon,”  said  the  Doctor,  soothed  by  that  sug- 
gestion, and  by  the  sense  that  he  had  himself  spoken 
well,  and  to  the  point,  “ I blame  myself  for  the  con- 
descension of  my  tone,  but  I will  condescend.  From 
me  to  you,  a more  crushing  rejoinder  might  be  fitter 
to  our  respective  positions — so  far  as  you  can  be  said 
to  have  any  position : nevertheless  I will  waive  my  po- 


276  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

sition,”  and  he  waved  a ruler,  as  typical  of  it.  “ I am 
willing  to  hope  that  this  may  prove  a temporary 
aberration.” 

Perkin  quietly  shook  his  head,  but  the  Warden  for 
the  moment  was  really  thinking  more  of  Gibbon  than 
of  him,  and  went  on  almost  without  noticing  it. 

“ That  Great  Man,”  and  he  pointed  the  ruler  at  the 
tip  of  the  Historian’s  little  snub  nose,  “ that  Sublime 
Genius  was  once  a Boy.” 

Perkin  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  and  seemed 
to  doubt  it. 

“ A Boy,  no  doubt,  of  Exceptional  Brilliance ; but 
a Boy — and  subject  to  the  infirmities  of  his  time  of 
life.” 

Perkin  knew  quite  as  much  about  Gibbon  as  the 
Doctor,  and  fancied  that  the  infirmities  belonged  to  a 
later  stage  than  boyhood,  and  very  unpleasant  they 
must  have  been. 

“ As  a Boy,”  cried  the  Warden,  pretty  cheerfully, 
“ Gibbon — ay,  Gibbon — fell  a victim  to  the  lures  and 
wiles  of  the  Harlot  of  the  Seven  Hills.” 

A truly  decorous  man  in  ordinary  social  conversa- 
tion, the  Doctor  had  no  difficulty  in  speaking  of  har- 
lots to  his  young  pupil — with  whom,  indeed,  he  had 
translated  Juvenal  without  turning  a hair. 

“ But,”  he  went  on,  with  rising  hope,  “ it  was  but 
a youthful  slip:  inexplicable ” 

“ I never,”  said  Perkin,  “ could  understand  how  on 
earth  he  came  to  do  it.” 

“ There  is  no  need  for  you  to  understand.  It  was, 
as  I observed,  inexplicable.” 

“Yes,  it  was,”  Perkin  agreed;  “he  never  had  any 
more  sense  of  religion  than  a tom  cat.” 


CH.  xxxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE  277 

“Auberon!  (My  tolerance  leads  you  to  forget 
yourself.)  But  Gibbon’s  lapse  was  brief;  he  soon  dis- 
carded the  effeminate  shackles  of  Rome ” 

(“  If  ever,”  thought  Perkin,  “ there  was  an  old 
woman,  Gibbon  was  his  name.”) 

“Of  Rome.  And  he  lived  to  be  her  doughtiest 
assailant.” 

“ Yes,  sir.  I know  he  lived  to  sneer  at  Christi- 
anity  ” 

“ Auberon!” 

And  the  Doctor  was  not  only  offended,  but  sin- 
cerely scandalized;  the  Decline  and  Fall  was  the  only 
History  of  the  Church  he  had  ever  read,  and  he 
thought  very  little  of  the  Church,  but  he  thought 
heaven  and  earth  of  Gibbon;  Gibbon  understood  what 
a Church  should  be,  and  how  the  Church  had  failed 
to  be  at  all  like  Gibbon’s  neat  ideal  of  it.  Of  ortho- 
doxy and  heresies  Gibbon  had  had  a sane  and  just  es- 
timate— leather  and  prunella. 

“ Auberon ! ” cried  the  Warden.  “ I was  hoping 
that  you  might  in  part  follow  that  Great  Man’s  ex- 
ample— or  take  warning  by  what  happened  in  his 
case,  and  avoid  his  temporary  lapse.  I fear  you  are 
not  at  all  like  Gibbon.” 

“ I am  sure  I am  not.  He  had  not  written  his  His- 
tory when  he  became  a Catholic;  I have  read  it,  and 
I am  certain  that  I shall  become  a Catholic,  and  by 
God’s  grace  remain  one.  Sir,  I do  most  truly  thank 
you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me:  you  have  always 
been  kind,  and  to-day,  too,  when  you  might  have  been 
very  different.  I did  not  think  you  would  be  harsh, 
but  you  might  have  been,  and  I do  most  deeply  feel 
how  far  from  harshly  you  have  treated  me.  I am  only 


278  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

a boy,  and  you  could  easily  snub  and  scold  me  down, 
and  you  have  not  tried  to  do  either.  Above  all,  I 
thank  you  for  not  sneering  at  me.  I know  that  I am 
doing  what  you  must  think  wrong,  though  I know 
that  in  me  it  would  be  horribly  wrong  not  to  do  it : 
for  me  there  would  be  no  excuse  if  I held  back.  Sir, 
I know  it  would  not  be  right  for  a boy  like  me  to 
talk  to  you,  my  dear,  kind  Master  and  Warden,  of 
God,  and  of  prayer,  but  I am  certain  that  God  will 
not  be  angry  with  me  for  doing  what  I hear  Him  tell- 
ing me  to  do,  and  I have  prayed  and  prayed  to  be  led, 
and  no  other  way  has  been  shown  to  me.  You  will, 
I dare  say,  always  be  sorry  that  I have  done  this 
thing,  but  I do  not  believe  you  will  ever  be  sorry  for 
having  listened  to  me  so  patiently  and  kindly.  I have 
been  very  happy  here,  and  I love  this  place,  and  every 
one  in  it;  but  I cannot  stay  in  it,  and  you  cannot  let 
me  stay.  As  soon  as  I had  told  my  own  people  I came 
to  tell  you  (with  a very  heavy  heart) ; and  now,  I am 
sure  you  will  say  that  I ought  to  go  home  and  come 
back  no  more;  I cannot  make  a secret  of  what  I am 
going  to  do,  and  it  would  not  be  right  to  tell  the 
other  boys  while  I am  one  of  them.  I must  go  home; 
and  then  I cannot  help  their  knowing;  they  will  hear, 
and  they  will  think  me,  no  doubt,  as  you  do,  sir,  a 
silly  fellow.  I can’t  help  that,  and  it  doesn’t  matter. 
But  I should  know  myself  to  be  a mean  and  dishonest 
boy  if  I stayed  here  and  pretended  to  believe  what 
every  one  who  shares  in  the  advantages  of  this  place 
has  now  to  believe.” 

There  came  a knock  at  the  door,  and  the  Doctor, 
half  ruefully,  half  with  relief,  called  out,  “ Come  in ! ” 
and  the  second  master  entered. 


279 


CH.  xxxviii]  MONKSBRIDGE 

“ Good-bye,  sir,”  said  Perkin. 

“ Good-bye,  Auberon,”  said  the  Warden.  “ God 
bless  you.” 

The  door  closed,  and  Auberon  was  gone ; they  heard 
his  light  footfall  as  he  went  downstairs,  and  some- 
thing in  the  solemnity  of  the  Warden’s  farewell  made 
the  second  master  say,  “ No  better  boy  in  all  the  school; 
no  cleverer,  nor  simpler,  nor  merrier,  nor  cleaner- 
lived.” 

The  Warden  was  worldly,  but  he  had  a heart,  and 
it  was  an  honest  one ; with  the  echo  of  the  lad’s  words 
still  ringing  in  it,  he  would  not  detract  from  his  char- 
acter or  decry  it.  But  he  was  not  ready  to  speak,  and 
only  nodded  gravely.  He  moved  to  the  great  oriel 
window  and  looked  down  into  “ Founder’s  Quad,” 
and  the  second  master  came  and  stood  beside  him. 

It  was  raining  a little,  but  a watery  gleam  of  sun- 
light shone  down  between  two  rags  of  cloud,  and 
lighted  the  bare  head  of  the  Cardinal’s  Scholar  who 
was  crossing  the  paved  yard — no  boy  walked  covered 
through  Founder’s  Quad.  Opposite  was  Founder’s 
Tower  with  its  arch,  leading  to  Chapel  Quad,  over 
which,  in  a triple  niche,  was  still  Our  Lady’s  image, 
weather-worn  by  the  rains  of  nearly  five  centuries,  with 
St.  Peter’s,  to  whom  the  college  was  dedicated,  on  her 
right,  and  on  her  left  the  kneeling  effigy  of  the  Cardi- 
nal Founder,  looking  up  at  her  and  the  Divine  Baby 
in  her  arms.  The  boy  looked  up  too,  and  the  two 
elderly  men  saw  him  bow  his  head  in  farewell  greet- 
ing. Because  he  held  her  for  God’s  Mother,  and 
trusted  to  her  prayers  for  him ; because  he  did  believe 
that  Christ  had  given  those  keys  to  Peter,  and  that 
Peter’s  successor  held  them  still;  because  he  thought 


2&Q 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxviii 

of  Christ’s  Church  and  her  Sacraments  and  her  teach- 
ing as  that  Founder,  himself  one  of  her  princes,  had 
done;  because  he  had  learned  exactly  what  the  Car- 
dinal had  founded  his  school  to  teach — he  had  to  go 
out  thence  and  never  come  back,  and  must  strip  off  the 
red  gown  he  wore  in  token  of  being  one  of  the  Car- 
dinal’s pupils.  The  two  masters  watched  him  pass 
out  of  sight  under  the  arch,  and  the  Warden,  turning 
from  the  window  whence  Founder’s  Tower  and  the 
Founder’s  image  could  be  seen,  towards  Gibbon  and 
Minerva,  said,  shaking  his  head  half  regretfully  and 
half  irritably — 

“ He  has  gone.  He  leaves  us.  His  exhibitions  and 
scholarships  are  vacant.  He  goes  to  join  the  Church 
of  Rome.” 

The  Warden  spoke  almost  as  though  that  church 
were  waiting  round  the  corner  (in  a cab,  for  instance) 
to  drive  the  Cardinal’s  Exhibitioner  away.  But  the 
second  master  was  too  thoroughly  excited  to  notice  the 
mere  form  of  the  announcement. 

“Auberon!  Turn  Catholic!  Good  Heavens!  You 
don’t  mean  it ! Good  Heavens ! I never  thought  him 
such  a fool.” 

Such  is  the  perversity  of  our  human  nature,  the  Doc- 
tor was  irritated  at  this  bald  expression  of  what  was 
his  own  opinion,  and  showed  it  in  his  manner.  With 
an  exclamation  of  impatience  he  turned  to  Gibbon,  and 
adjusted  the  great  man’s  bust — which  was  slewed  a 
little  too  much  to  the  left,  as  if  Miss  Curchod’s  lover 
were  ogling  the  austere  Minerva. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 


Auberon  passed  under  the  arch  of  Founder’s  Tower, 
and,  crossing  the  quadrangle,  ran  up  the  semi-lunar 
flight  of  shallow  stone  steps,  under  another  arch,  low- 
browed and  much  worn  with  time  and  weather,  into 
the  fore-porch  of  the  chapel.  Opposite  the  door  into 
the  chapel  itself  was  another  niche  in  which  another 
image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  had  once  stood,  and  un- 
der it  was  a sort  of  little  stone  cupboard,  for  a lamp 
to  be  kept  burning  in  her  honour.  At  that  precise  mo- 
ment it  held  only  a Greek  grammar,  for  which  Haw- 
kins mi  (its  careless  and  forgetful  owner)  was  search- 
ing in  vain  up  and  down  his  class-room. 

Auberon  pushed  open  the  chapel  door  and  went  in. 
A rainy  gleam  of  sunlight  was  streaming  through  one 
of  the  windows  not  filled  with  stained  glass,  though  in 
the  middle  of  one  of  its  panels  were  the  Cardinal’s 
arms,  surmounted  by  his  red  hat  and  surrounded  by 
its  strings  and  tassels. 

The  chapel  was,  as  the  boy  knew  it  would  be,  empty : 
and  he  stood,  for  a moment,  looking  round  and  taking 
it  all  in  for  the  last  time.  On  each  side  of  the  door 
were  the  old  recessed  stoups  for  holy  water,  and  he 
dipped  his  hand  in  one,  as  though  it  were  not  empty, 
and  crossed  himself — how  long  was  it  since  any  boy 
had  done  the  same  thing  there?  Some  one  must  have 
done  it  for  the  last  time,  and  for  his  soul  Perkin  put  up 
a little  prayer.  Over  the  entrance  was  another  win- 
dow, in  which  was  shown  the  Commission  of  the  Keys 

281 


282 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxix 

to  Peter,  for  the  chapel,  like  the  college,  had  been  dedi- 
cated in  honour  of  Christ’s  Mother  and  His  Vicar. 
Behind  the  altar  was  a carved  stone  reredos,  repre- 
senting the  Annunciation : the  ancient  altar  itself  had 
been  removed  in  compliance  with  Edward  VI.’s  order 
that  all  altars  should  be  destroyed,  and  a somewhat 
mean  and  meagre  wooden  table  replaced  it,  and  stood 
there  still.  The  ancient  piscina  for  the  Mass,  with  a 
credence-shelf  over  it,  was  also  still  to  be  seen,  in  the 
wall  to  the  right,  and,  opposite,  was  an  aumbry  for 
the  holy  oils,  its  oaken  doors  still  intact,  and,  inside, 
the  college-porter’s  wife  kept  a little  brush  and  dust- 
pan, of  rather  special  quality,  that  she  used  for  clean- 
ing the  stalls. 

Auberon  stood  near  the  door  for  a minute  or  two, 
and  then  knelt  down  in  one  of  the  lower  boys’  benches : 
his  own  stall,  as  Cardinal’s  scholar,  was  up  near  the 
altar,  but  he  felt  he  had  resigned  his  scholarships  and 
had  no  right  to  it.  He  hardly  prayed,  he  was  only 
saying  good-bye ; but  he  must  say  it  on  his  knees. 

It  seemed  to  him  much  longer  than  it  really  was 
since  he  had  first  come  here : even  of  his  short  life 
but  a small  proportion  had  been  spent  in  this  place; 
but  it  seemed  as  though  all  his  life  that  mattered  much 
had  been  crowded  into  the  time  during  which  he  had 
belonged  to  Abbot’s  School.  And  everything  in  the 
school,  and  everybody  in  it,  had  suddenly  acquired 
a sort  of  poignant  interest  that  was  almost  sacred.  He 
had  always  been  alert  to  notice  anything  queer,  and 
nothing  odd  or  comic  at  Abbot’s  had  ever  escaped 
him;  even  now  he  half  smiled  to  think  of  some  of 
the  boys,  and  some  of  the  masters,  of  the  pompous, 
good-natured,  and  obsequious  college  porter,  utterly 


ch.  xxxix]  MONKSBRIDGE  283 

h-less  where  h’s  should  be,  but  lavishly  putting  h’s 
where  none  were  demanded  by  law  or  custom ; and, 
half  smiling,  he  felt  a rueful  twinge  of  compunction, 
such  as  one  might  feel  beside  the  odd,  unshaped  form 
of  one  well  known  on  whom  has  fallen  for  ever  the 
Great  Silence. 

He  would  not  have  been  my  brother  Perkin  had  he 
felt  any  hardness  towards  any  one.  For  what  he  was 
losing  he  blamed  no  one,  not  even  Fate  the  much- 
abused:  in  stripping  himself  of  all  he  had  gained  by 
honest  work,  of  the  independent  position  he  had 
earned  so  young,  he  felt  no  grudging  anger  against 
inexorable  necessity.  He  had  nothing  left  in  all  the 
world  but  himself — and  something  greater  than  him- 
self: he  was  making  himself  a penniless,  dependent 
boy,  but  he  accepted  his  utter  poverty  (he  who  so 
liked  to  spend)  and  dependence  (to  whom  dependence 
was  so  irksome)  as  simply  as  any  grown  gentleman  has 
ever  accepted  ruin,  to  whom  ruin  has  come  suddenly, 
and  said,  “ You  and  I are  decreed  to  one  another.” 

He  had  given  himself  to  our  Lord,  as  he  saw  Him, 
and  the  little  gift  had  been  accepted  and  kept;  it  was 
not  flouted,  as  of  mean  and  silly  account,  and  flung 
back.  He  never  got  back  exactly  what  he  had  given, 
only  something  greater  in  its  place.  God  never  gives 
us  back  our  wretched  selves,  unless  we  grudge  and 
snatch  the  gift  back,  and  insist  on  that  miserable 
restitution.  He  gives  Himself  instead.  So  Perkin, 
clutching  at  no  such  restoration  of  what  he  had  lost, 
never  became  quite  the  old  Perkin;  and  the  blemish 
of  a certain  light  and  careless  selfishness,  that  had 
once  been  in  him,  withered  up  in  the  wonderful  great 
fire  to  which  he  had  committed  himself. 


284  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxix 

The  only  thing  of  his  own  that  he  made  any  count 
of  was  his  conscience,  because  it  did  not  belong  to  him, 
and  he  durst  not  play  the  fool  with  it.  Of  his  own  loss 
he  thought  (that  rainy,  sunny  afternoon  of  gusty  light 
and  petulant,  laughing  tears)  only  as  it  meant  the 
parting  with  what  no  boy,  unlike  him,  would  have 
thought  of  at  all.  No  one  in  all  Abbot’s  School  had 
one  pang  of  regret  for  him  like  the  pang  he  felt  at 
losing  them.  The  playing-fields,  the  school  quadran- 
gles (where  so  much  of  the  school-life,  for  five  centu- 
ries, had  been  lived),  every  common,  trivial  feature 
of  the  place,  and  of  the  life,  shone  to  him,  in  that 
last  light  of  farewell,  sacred  and  poignantly  remote, 
part  of  himself  and  gone  from  himself  for  ever  and 
ever.  And  even  here,  too,  he  thought  not  of  himself 
alone,  egotistically ; it  all  seemed  to  him  a great,  won- 
derful river  of  undying  youth,  flowing  onward  through 
the  flat  centuries,  sunlit,  with  a sun  that  never  touches 
man’s  jostling  success,  to  some  vast  undiscovered 
country;  of  himself  he  thought  only  as  a drop  in  it, 
infinitely  trivial  in  comparison  of  that  ever-living, 
never-ceasing  whole.  The  walls  of  the  chapel  seemed 
like  the  banks  of  that  ever-moving  stream  of  youth, 
endlessly  flowing  through  them,  never  held  or  kept 
back  by  them,  themselves  changing  but  little  by  time’s 
slow  erosion. 

He  was  hardly  praying  now : only  taking  a farewell 
so  reverent  that  its  bowing  down  of  spirit  and  heart 
was  in  truth  a prayer — of  love,  and  patience,  and 
thanksgiving,  and  submission ; but  he  had  often  prayed 
here:  it  was  here  that  he  had,  perhaps,  learned  to 
pray. 

It  was  growing  dusk  now,  and  he  must  be  going; 


ch.  xxxix ] MONKSBRIDGE  285 

it  was  hard  to  go,  and  leave  behind  him  here,  as  he 
felt  he  would,  his  merry  boyhood.  The  careless  days 
of  play,  and  of  work  almost  as  pleasant  and  easy  as 
play,  must  give  place  to  a man’s  heavier  work.  He 
had  his  bread  to  earn,  and  could  no  longer  expect  to 
be  able  to  pick  and  choose  the  way  of  it.  Almost  from 
the  beginning  of  his  coming  to  this  place  he  had  cost 
his  mother  nothing,  and  certainly  he  must  cost  her 
nothing  henceforward.  He  was  old  enough  to  earn 
a livelihood,  and  he  must  do  it,  in  whatever  fashion 
he  should  find  possible;  and  he  knew  it  might  have 
to  be  in  some  manner  irksome  enough.  He  did  not 
shrink  from  that,  or  from  the  idea  of  dull,  meagrely 
remunerated,  toil:  but  he  stood  at  the  threshold  of 
manhood  with  all  his  boyhood  torn  away,  and  made 
suddenly  as  distant,  as  irrevocably  part  of  the  past, 
as  though  it  were  actually  thrust  behind  him  by  the 
vague,  slow  lapse  of  years. 

Around  the  chapel  walls,  under  the  windows,  ran 
a scripture,  carved  in  stone  letters;  it  was  too  dark 
to  read  it  now,  but  he  knew  it  was  there,  and  it 
preached  to  him,  giving  him  a motto  for  his  life: — 

EXSPECTA  : DOMINVM  : VIRILITER  : AGE  • 
ET  : CONFORTETVR  • COR  : TVVM  • 

ET  SVSTINE  : DOMINVM. 

He  was  just  beginning  really  to  pray  at  last — for 
his  mother  and  his  sisters — when  the  chapel  door  was 
pushed  open,  and  some  one  came  in  with  a light,  hur- 
ried step,  uncertain  and  troubled;  and  he  knew  that 
some  one  else  had  knelt  down,  hastily,  just  inside  the 
door,  and  he  could  hear  a panting  whisper,  as  if  the 


286 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxix 

new-comer  were  praying  unaware  of  any  other  human 
presence.  So  he  rose  to  go  away;  and,  dim  as  the 
place  was  grown,  he  recognized,  when  close  to  him, 
who  it  was  that  had  interrupted  him;  a young  boy 
whom  he  scarcely  knew,  but  whose  face  he  knew  well, 
an  almost  childish  face,  innocent  and  not  wise,  as 
though  the  innocence  were  half  silly,  and  the  silliness 
but  a part  of  its  innocence.  He  was  not  kneeling  up, 
but,  rather,  crouching  on  the  floor,  and  the  attitude  ex- 
pressed such  pain  and  trouble  that  Auberon  could  not 
pass  by  on  the  other  side. 

“ Is  anything  the  matter  ? ” he  asked  gently,  pausing 
and  bending  down. 

“ Oh  yes ! ” the  child  answered  miserably ; “ that’s 
why  I came  here.  I couldn’t  think  of  anything  else 
to  do.  I’m  so  horribly  afraid.” 

And  all  his  body  shook  with  gasping  sighs  that  were 
like  dry  sobs. 

“ What  is  it?  Tell  me.  Can  I help  you?” 

His  grave,  whispering  voice  sounded  so  kind  in 
that  quiet  place,  that  the  child,  half  desperate,  took 
heart  to  blurt  out  an  answer  under  the  covering 
dusk. 

“ I’m  in  a frightful  trouble.  Something  has  been 
found  out.  A fearful  thing.  K knows.  He  sus- 

pected, and  spied,  and  found  out.  He  will  tell,  I’m 
sure  he’ll  tell.  And  if  he  does  it  will  be  expelling. 
My  mother — it  will  kill  her.  All  day  (since  I knew 
that  K knew)  I have  been  nearly  mad  with  hor- 

ror and  fright,  and  just  now  it  came  into  my  head  to 
come  here;  but  I can’t  pray,  I can’t  think,  I can’t  do 
anything.  . . . Oh,  Auberon!  everybody  thinks  such 
a lot  of  you;  K does.  You  . . . could  you  . . . 


ch.  xxxix]  MONKSBRIDGE  287 

would  you  speak  to  him?  He  would  listen  to  you — 
only  not  to  be  expelled — in  two  weeks  it  is  the  holi- 
days, and  I would  promise  not  to  come  back;  I would 
make  my  mother  not  let  me  come  back.  Only  not 
to  be  expelled.  Auberon,  you  asked  if  you  could  do 
anything.  Will  you  help  me?” 

The  chapel  was  all  one  grey  shadow  now;  but  to 
the  big  boy  who  was  leaving  it  for  ever  it  seemed  to 
be  filled  with  eastern  light,  and  it  held  more  than  him 
and  the  gasping,  agonized  child;  the  writing  Christ 
was  there,  stooping  to  His  writing  on  the  ground, 
the  only  writing  He  ever  did  on  earth;  a cowering 
figure  was  near  Him,  waiting  for  His  first  condem- 
nation who  was  without  sin.  Only  He  would  not ; but 
wrote,  for  the  clean-eyed  angels  to  read,  His  decree 
of  pardon  and  sweet  hope. 

To  Him  first,  and  not  to  the  child,  the  lad  spoke; 
he  prayed  now,  without  any  show  of  it,  his  heart  only 
kneeling,  and  his  lips  making  no  sound. 

“ Give  me  this  child  instead  of  myself,”  he  asked. 
“ Let  me  promise  for  You,  and  keep  my  word.  I am 
being  expelled  from  this  place.  Let  that  be  enough. 
Give  me  leave,  Christ  Jesus,  to  promise  for  You.” 

What  leave  could  he  expect?  Could  he  look  for 
any  voice  from  heaven? 

It  did  not  come  from  heaven,  but  from  low  down 
on  the  earth. 

“ Promise ! ” wailed  the  cowering  child  at  his  feet. 

And,  because  he  knew  Him,  already,  to  Whom  he 
had  spoken,  he  took  it  for  leave  to  answer. 

“ I promise,”  he  said  gently. 

Then  the  child  wept,  in  gusts  and  sobs  of  tears. 
At  first  he  could  not  speak. 


288 


MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xxxix 

“And  you  will  speak  for  me  to  K ?”  he 

gasped,  at  last.  “ Oh,  Auberon,  how  kind  you  are ! 
He  will  attend  to  you,  you  will  speak  to  him  ? ” 

To  Perkin  it  seemed  like  a temptation.  Should 
he  interfere?  Should  he  speak?  Or  should  he  believe, 
and  not  thrust  himself  in  at  all?  Is  God  so  far  away 
that  He  can,  in  these  stale  days  of  little  faith,  be 
trusted  to  do  nothing  any  longer  by  Himself? 

“ Oh,  Auberon!  You  promised,”  pleaded  the  child. 
“ I do  promise.  No  harm  shall  happen  to  you.” 
With  a tearing  sigh  of  relief  the  child  thanked  him 
again. 

“ No.  No  harm  will  happen  if  you  speak  for 
me.” 

“ I have  spoken.  No  harm  will  happen  to  you.” 

“ Spoken  ? spoken  already  ? Did  you  know  before 

I told  you?  Had  K told  you?  ” 

“No.  I knew  nothing.  It  was  to  Him — Himself — 
I spoke ; and  I promise — for  Him — that  no  harm  shall 
happen  to  you.  Can  you  not  believe  ? When  you  came 
here  you  knew  what  you  were  coming  for — Who  it 

was  you  were  going  to  ask ” 

“ Yes,”  the  poor  child  pleaded,  “ because  there  was 
nothing  else  to  do.  No  one  else  to  ask.  But  you  were 
here,  and  it  came  into  my  head  to  ask  you — and  oh! 
I thought  you  had  promised.” 

“ I did,  I do.  He  sent  you  here.  He  put  me  here 
to  answer  for  Him.  I do  answer.  He  is  here  to 
know,  if  He  would  not  be  bound  by  the  promise  I 
know  He  gave  me  leave  to  make  He  would  say  so, 
you  would  hear  Him ; I would.  Listen : I promise,  for 
Him,  that  no  harm  shall  happen  to  you.” 

The  silence  that  fell  when  the  lad  ceased  speaking 


ch.  xxxix]  MONKSBRIDGE  289 

was  like  the  resonance  of  the  great  ocean,  as  children 
hear  it  in  an  empty  shell.  It  tingled  in  their  ears. 

“ Believe  him,”  it  whispered  to  the  child : he  wav- 
ered, trembled,  clutched  at  the  deeper-grounded  hope 
it  gave  than  any  that  mere  compliance  with  his  often- 
urged  plea  for  human  interference  could  really  have 
given — and  he  did  believe.  He  knew  that  there  was 
no  disavowal  of  the  bold,  strange  promise.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  the  Divine,  conquering  blow  of 
faith  had  stricken  him  also. 

“ Good-bye,”  Auberon  whispered  as  simply  as  ever 
boy  spoke.  “ It  will  be  all  right.” 

And  he  went  away,  out  of  the  place  where  he  had 
learned  to  pray,  and  where  he  would  never  be  again. 
It  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  tag  on  to  his  mes- 
sage of  comfort  the  warning  “ Sin  no  more ; ” he  was 
only  a boy,  and  God’s  Eternal  Law  could  gain  no 
strength  by  his  officious  reminder  of  it. 

And  no  harm  did  happen  to  the  child. 


CHAPTER  XL 


Before  the  next  day’s  sun  had  set,  all  Monksbridge 
was  agog  with  the  portentous  news  that  one  of  the 
boys  of  Abbot’s  School  had  turned  Catholic.  He  had 
been,  it  was  reported,  publicly  stripped  of  his  red  gown, 
publicly  expelled,  his  name  had  been  publicly  erased 
from  the  College  Roll,  and  his  name  (written  in  gilt 
letters  in  Hall,  like  that  of  all  Cardinal’s  scholars)  had 
been  publicly  painted  over  with  black  paint.  Simon 
Plummer,  the  glazier  and  painter,  had  been  sent  for, 
and  had  daubed  it  over  with  his  black  paint  in  the 
presence  of  the  whole  school  and  all  the  masters,  who 
had  hissed  (not  Plummer,  but  the  culprit  Papist  boy) 
“ in  a profound  silence,”  which  burst  into  “ God  save 
the  Queen  ” by  way  of  protest  against  the  disloyalty  of 
Catholics.  It  was  reported  that  the  Warden  had  pub- 
licly flogged  the  renegade,  till,  overcome  by  tears,  he 
had  been  unable  to  proceed.  A later  version  of  this 
rumour  added  that  the  second  master  had  then  taken 
Dr.  FitzSimon’s  place;  in  this  form  the  story  crossed 
the  bridge  and  reached  old  Lawyer  Stiff,  in  Llanthamy, 
who  said — 

“ Tut,  tut!  It  would  be  assault — a lad  of  eighteen 
can’t  be  set  upon  with  blows  by  two  men  for  leaving 
the  Church  of  England.” 

But  then  old  Stiff  was  a Dissenter,  and  his  incredu- 
lity was  readily  understood. 

Mrs.  Auberon  was  declared  by  half  the  servants  in 
Monksbridge  to  have  fallen  into  a succession  of  faint- 

290 


MONKSBRIDGE 


291 


CH.  XL] 

ing  fits,  and  to  be  lying  at  death’s  door  with  two  doc- 
tors in  constant  attendance ; the  other  half  understood 
that  she  and  her  daughters  had  all  been  perverted  by 
“the  son,”  and  were  about  to  enter  convents;  in  the 
case  of  the  elder  Miss  Auberon  this  was  partly  at- 
tributed to  disappointment,  Lord  Monksbridge  having 
instantly  broken  his  engagement. 

In  the  bar  of  the  Cross  Keys  it  was  said  that  the 
Duke,  as  Visitor  of  Abbot’s  School,  was  leaving  for 
London  to  apply  for  a Royal  Commission  with  a view 
to  “ suspending  ” it,  till  such  reforms  could  be  intro- 
duced as  would  purge  it  from  the  disgrace  it  had 
sustained  and  render  impossible  any  such  scandals 
in  the  future.  It  was  also  asserted  that  an  action  at 
law  would  lie  against  the  renegade,  who,  it  now  ap- 
peared, had  long  been  a Catholic  and  a Jesuit  in  dis- 
guise; that  he  would  be  sued  in  damages  for  the  costs 
of  his  board,  lodging  and  education,  which  he  had 
obtained  under  false  pretences ; probably  he  would  also 
be  charged  with  conspiracy. 

“ Tut,  tut!  ” said  old  Mr.  Stiff,  to  whom  this  report 
also  filtered.  “ The  question  is,  whether  he  could  not 
sue  them  for  deprivation  of  the  income  of  his  scholar- 
ships— if  he  hadn’t  been  weak  enough  to  resign  them 
of  his  own  accord.” 

The  Dissenters  on  the  whole  were  rather  pleased, 
and  the  Rev.  J.  Bibble  only  wondered  that  the  she- 
wolf  of  Rome  didn’t  snap  up  more  of  the  ill-shep- 
herded lambs  of  the  Establishment;  but  none  the  less 
did  he  and  they  condemn  the  precocious  depravity  of 
young  Auberon — there  would  be  no  harm  in  his  leav- 
ing the  Church  of  England  had  he  left  it  for  a Gospel 
religion  (of  which  there  were  several  in  Monksbridge), 


MONKSBRIDGE 


292 


[CH.  XL 


but  to  hark  back  to  the  vomit  of  Rome  was  a sign  of 
a fearfully  depraved  nature. 

One  very  old  gentleman,  a retired  publican,  who 
had  been  ineffectually  trying  to  drink  himself  to  death 
for  many  years,  and  relieved  the  burden  of  his  leisure 
by  much  reading  of  the  newspapers,  ascribed  it  to 
the  French  as  direct  emissaries  of  the  Pope.  The 
French,  it  seemed,  had  long  been  taking  his  instruc- 
tions in  Rome,  under  a flimsy  pretext  of  garrisoning 
that  Seven  Hilled  City  (we  had  no  hills  in  Monks- 
bridge,  and  felt  our  superiority).  He  had  recently  let 
them  go  away,  and  no  doubt  had  bidden  them  scatter 
themselves  through  Protestant  countries  as  spies  and 
what  not.  A French  drill-sergeant  had  quite  lately  ap- 
peared in  Monksbridge,  and  made  a show  of  giving 
lessons  in  fencing  and  calisthenics;  most  likely  every 
town  in  England  had  been  similarly  invaded. 

“ And  what,”  asked  Mr.  Porter,  tragically,  “ is  to 
prevent  them  rising,  throughout  England,  as  one  man, 
and  killing  of  us  all  in  our  beds  ? ” 

And  certainly  it  appeared  likely  that,  if  they  rose 
at  all,  it  would  be  as  one  man,  seeing  that  there  was 
only  one  of  them  in  each  of  the  doomed  towns. 

Elijah  Castor,  a fifth-rate  grocer,  who  did  but  a 
meagre  trade,  almost  entirely  on  long  credit,  was 
quite  pensive  about  it  throughout  Monday,  and  spoke 
dismally  to  his  customers  as  he  weighed  out  tea  and 
sugar,  so  absent-mindedly  as  not  to  be  aware  that 
the  ounce  weight  lay  all  day  under  a scrap  of  whitey- 
brown  paper  at  the  bottom  of  that  scale  where  no 
weights  were  supposed  to  be. 

“ ’Tis  a back-sliding,”  he  observed,  “ and  a stroke  o’ 
reprobation  cuttin’  very  nigh  oursens.  Two  women 


MONKSBRIDGE 


293 


CH.  XL] 

grindin’  at  the  mill,  one  taken,  and  another  left.  It 
might  as  well  be  huz  onst  that  vulture’s  paw  is  scrattin’ 
round.  Oo’s  to  say  where  it’ll  scrat  next?  ” 

“ Very  true,  Mr.  Castor,”  agreed  Mrs.  Plugram,  of 
the  Abbot’s  Trusts’  Almshouses,  eyeing  her  quarter- 
pound  of  tea  with  a strong  impression  that  it  looked 
less  than  usual,  but  (conscious  of  a running  account 
that  might,  perhaps,  run  longer  than  herself)  voicing 
no  suspicion. 

“ ’Twould  be,”  she  said,  “ a crool  thing  for  the 
poor,  if  the  Pope  came  over  universal,  and  raised  the 
prices  on  us — nezessities  o’  life  are  dear  enough 
a’ready.” 

“ Nezessities ! I counts  tea  a luggzory.  There’s 
yourn,  Mrs.  Plugram;  and  I loses  on  it.  I loses  on 
every  quarter-pound  I make  up;  ’tis  only  the  quantity 
as  shows  a profit — that’s  well  known  i’  the  trade.” 

But  Mrs.  Plugram  and  Elijah  Castor,  and  even  Mr. 
Porter,  lay  in  very  low  strata  of  the  Monksbridge 
formation.  In  much  higher  layers  of  it  young  Au- 
beron  was  equally,  though  differently,  condemned. 

Miss  Belvoir  took  “ his  apostasy  ” as  a reflection  on 
her  late  father,  who  had  been  a Vicar,  and  only  missed 
being  an  Archdeacon  by  becoming  an  angel  at  a pre- 
mature and  inopportune  moment ; the  Church  of  Eng- 
land had  been  good  enough  for  him — was  it  not  good 
enough  for  a schoolboy  of  eighteen?  But  he  was  an 
Auberon,  and  there  was  a fund  of  conceit  in  the  Au- 
beron  blood.  His  eldest  sister,  it  was  well  known, 
had  meant  him  for  a bishop — but  to  be  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  would  not  satisfy  him;  there  were  no  Car- 
dinals in  the  English  Church,  so  he  went  where  there 
were  (his  red  gown,  no  doubt,  had  put  it  in  his  head), 


294 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XL 

and  he  most  likely  aimed  to  be  Pope — Perkin  I.,  but 
his  real  name  was  Peter,  and  he  would  be  Peter  II., 
and  English  travellers  would  have  to  kiss  his 
toe. 

Mrs.  Hawthorn,  the  Vicar’s  wife,  knew  that  Au- 
beron  had  not  been  expelled,  and  deplored  the  cir- 
cumstance. 

“ If  you  had  been  Warden,  Vicar,  you  would  have 
done  it,  or  my  name’s  not  Genesta.” 

The  Vicar,  a mild  man  with  four  chins,  was  well 
aware  that  her  name  was  as  she  stated  it;  she  had  it 
from  her  godmother  (called  after  her  aunt,  who  was 
an  Honourable  of  the  Grooby-Mere  family,  that  de- 
scended in  the  female  line  from  the  Plantagenets). 

“ But,  Jenny,”  he  argued,  “ I couldn’t.  No  Warden 
could.” 

“ He  should  have  been  stripped  of  his  gown — as 
people  say  he  was.  The  report  was  correct  in  princi- 
ple, tho’  mistaken  in  fact.  Vox  populo , you  know.” 

“ Populi,  my  dear,  populi.” 

“ I or  Oh — I’d  have  stripped  him.  I never  cared  for 
those  Auberons — after  all,  quite  new  people  in  Monks- 
bridge,  and  full  of  airs;  a curate’s  widow,  and  only 
duke’s  houses  good  enough  for  her  and  her  young 
madams  to  stay  at;  and  that  brazen-haired  daughter 
that’s  to  marry  the  lord ” 

“ The  Lord,  my  dear ! ” 

“ Jeremiah,  don’t  be  profane,  if  weaned  childs — 
children,  I should  say — are  becoming  Papists  all 
around  you.  I never  thought  much  of  her  looks — nor 
Mrs.  Fitz  either;  I dare  say  it’s  her  bose  yew,  as  Mrs. 
Fitz  would  say,  that  account  for  the  brother  not  being 
expelled.  The  Warden  was  inclined  to  make  a pretty 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XL] 


295 


goose  of  himself  about  her  when  first  into  this  parish 
she  came.” 

“ My  dear,  we’d  better  not  be  scandalous,”  the 
Vicar  suggested,  not  intolerantly.  He  had  no  idea  of 
Deaneries  or  Bishoprics  himself,  but  rather  inclined 
to  the  view  that  you  should  be  content  in  that  sta- 
tion in  life  in  which  it  had  pleased  Providence  to  set 
you — with  seven  hundred  a year,  two  curates,  only 
one  daughter,  and  a wife  who  had  ninety-one  pounds, 
thirteen  and  fourpence  a year  of  her  own,  and  no 
extravagant  tastes.  He  was  not  at  all  jealous  of  the 
Warden,  and  did  not  dislike  him  in  the  least,  but  he 
thought  him  a shallow  fellow  (the  sort  that  gets  on, 
however),  and  had  heard  of  his  neighbour’s  transient 
appreciation  of  the  pretty  Miss  Auberon  with  some 
chuckling,  and  without  the  slightest  apprehension  of  a 
clerical  scandal.  He  thought  highly  of  the  young 
lady’s  prudence,  and  did  not  think  meanly  of  Mrs. 
FitzSimon’s  alertness  and  circumspection. 

“ Come,  come,”  he  said,  “ we  mustn’t  be  uncharita- 
ble; they’re  our  very  good  neighbours.  He’s  a life- 
long friend;  I remember  his  sister,  a personable  young 
woman  who  married  a wholesale  tanner  in  quite  a 
big  way.” 

“ There  are  no  tanners  in  my  family,”  Mrs.  Haw- 
thorn observed  loftily.  “ If  we  don’t  grab  up  lords, 
or  take  Wardens  and  be  thankful  for  them,  we  mate 
with  beneficed  clergy,  like  our  mothers  and  grand- 
mothers before  us;  and  if  I were  one ” 

“A  grandmother,  my  dear?”  said  the  Vicar,  with 
ill-timed  jocosity. 

“ If  I were  a beneficed  clergyman  in  a parish  where 
a parishioner  of  mine,  however  young  and  jacka- 


MONKSBRIDGE 


296 


[CH.  XL 


napesy,  had  gone  over  to  Rome,  I’d  expel  him  pub- 
licly.” 

“ But  he  has  expelled  himself.  And  publicly  enough 
— all  Monksbridge  is  talking  about  it.  I’m  sick  of 
hearing  of  it.  I lament  it.  But  if  it  concerns  any- 
body it  concerns  the  Warden;  why  do  you  assail 
me?  ” 

And  the  poor  Vicar  grew  almost  pathetic  in  his 
sense  of  female  injustice. 

“ The  boy,”  he  added,  “ expelled  himself.  What 
more  do  you  want?  He  just  told  the  Doctor  what  he 
was  going  to  do,  and  walked  off,  leaving  all  his  schol- 
arships behind  him.” 

“ He  shouldn’t  have  been  allowed  to  walk  off.  He 
should  have  been  retained  for  Public  Expulsion.  It’s 
odd  if  you  take  his  part.  He  has  been  a Catholic  at 
heart  ever  so  long,  no  doubt.  A Papist  in  dis- 
guise  ” 

“ Disguised  like  a Cardinal  in  a red  robe ! ” cried 
the  Vicar,  who  had  been  a good  husband  too  long 
not  to  love  scoring  a point  against  the  wife  of  his 
broad  bosom.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  was  bored  to  death 
by  all  the  talk  of  young  Auberon’s  shocking  misbe- 
haviour; it  was  now  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  news 
had  reached  Prior’s  House  by  six  on  Saturday  even- 
ing. From  that  moment  till  she  went  to  sleep  his  wife 
had  spoken  of  nothing  else,  and  she  had  begun  again 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  the  Vicar  was  used  to  have 
his  study  to  himself,  that  he  might  meditate — espe- 
cially if,  as  to-day,  he  were  to  preach  at  the  evening 
service.  But,  after  receiving  several  visitors  (rare 
on  Sundays),  Mrs.  Hawthorn  had  invaded  that  sane- 


CH.  XL] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


297 


tuary,  and  he  much  wished  she  would  go.  He  was 
actually  sitting  upon  the  third  volume  of  the  Last 
Chronicle  of  Barset,  and  though  he  might  not,  like 
the  Princess,  have  felt  a single  parched  pea  through 
twenty  feather-beds,  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the 
book,  and  would  like  to  go  on  with  it.  Being  a clergy- 
man himself,  he  was  not  in  the  least  sensitive  about 
Mr.  Trollope’s  presentation  of  parsons;  it  was  by  the 
ecclesiastically-minded  laity  that  that  portraiture  was 
held  to  be  libellous  and  cynical.  The  clergy,  he  con- 
sidered, were  no  more  perfect  than  other  people,  and 
he  resented  the  assumption  that  they  should  be  perfect, 
much  more  than  the  clever  author’s  representations  of 
them.  He  would  not  even  confess  that  Archdeacon 
Grantly  was  worldly  in  any  objectionable  degree,  but 
thought  him  a fine  specimen  of  the  older  type  of  clergy- 
man, well-born  and  affluent,  not  haughty  to  his  in- 
feriors, or  supercilious  among  his  equals,  without 
humbug  and  with  many  excellent  qualities  not  uni- 
versally found  among  more  “ Apostolic  ” pastors  of 
a newer  school.  Of  Mr.  Crawley  he  thought  very 
much  as  the  Archdeacon  did,  pitying  his  great  mis- 
fortunes but  disliking  him,  and  holding  him  for  a 
poor  creature  with  a bee  in  his  bonnet.  The  gentle 
and  sweet  Mr.  Harding  he  admired  much  less  than 
Trollope  himself  evidently  did,  and  when  the  old  man 
refused  the  Deanery,  Mr.  Hawthorn  was  quite  as 
impatient  and  irritated  as  Dr.  Grantly. 

Mrs.  Hawthorn  was  not  at  all  like  Mrs.  Proudie, 
but  the  Vicar  was  still  less  like  that  awful  lady’s 
husband,  and  he  determined  to  have  his  study  to  him- 
self ; and  he  made  himself  understood. 

“ Well,  I’ll  go,”  said  Mrs.  Hawthorn.  “ I see  what 


MONKSBRIDGE 


298 


[CH.  XL 


you’re  going  to  preach:  and  you’ll  want  to  read  it 
through.  Shall  I bring  your  tea  in  here — or  ” — per- 
ceiving some  access  of  impatience  in  her  lord — “ shall 
I send  it  in?  ” 

“ Yes,  my  dear.  Do ! Let  Sarah  bring  it  in.” 

(It  was  a perpetual  satisfaction  to  Mrs.  FitzSimon 
that  they  only  kept  a “ Sarah,”  while  Warden’s  Lodge 
gloried  in  a “ Willoughby  ” — in  ginger-coloured 
livery.) 

Mrs.  Hawthorn  had  her  eye  on  the  sermon,  an  old 
one,  and  it  had  caught  the  text. 

“ Ah ! ” she  observed,  “ ‘ Out  of  the  mouths  of 
babes  and  sucklings.’  I do  believe  you’re  going  to 
preach  on  it — that  you’re  going  to  bring  him  in.” 

“ No,  I’m  not.  I never  thought  of  it,”  her  husband 
protested,  with  gathering  impatience  for  his  book. 
“ I shouldn’t  think  of  it.  But  it  may  be  as  well  not  to 
preach  that  one  at  all.” 

“ ‘ Curse  ye  Meroz,’  would  be  more  seasonable,  I 
should  say,”  declared  the  lady. 

“Nonsense,  Jenny!  Do  you  suppose  I’m  going  to 
behave  as  if  a green  boy’s  folly  were  turning  us  all 
upside-down?  I shall  ignore  it.” 

“ Don’t  be  angry,  Jeremiah,”  pleaded  his  wife,  com- 
ing back  from  the  door  and  speaking  with  an  almost 
tearful  meekness.  “ I have  never  dictated  or  sug- 
gested, have  I,  now?  Only  I do  love  for  you  to  dis- 
tinguish yourself ; I know  you  don’t  care  to — you’ve 
no  paltry  ambitions,  like  some.  You  never  do  use 
the  pulpit  to  advertise  yourself.  But  don’t  be  cross 
because  I ” 

“ No,  Nesta ; no,  I’m  not  cross,”  the  elderly  clergy- 
man assured  her  good-naturedly.  “ I know  you  meant 


MONKSBRIDGE 


299 


CH.  XL] 

well;  but  really  I don’t  think  it  dignified  to  make  a 
public  fuss  about  a thing  like  this  . . . and  . . . and, 
Nesta,  if  I had  a lad  of  my  own  I should  feel  it,  if  he 
couldn’t  be  content  with  the  religion  that  his  father 
preached,  but  this  boy  is  no  son  of  ours,  and  it  can’t 
cut  us  that  way.  And — and,  Nesta;  if  one  had  a son, 
it  would  not  be  a bad  thing,  after  all,  if  he  thought 
enough,  and  cared  enough,  about  religion,  to  be  ready 
to  give  up  all  that  lad  is  giving  up.  Few  boys  do.” 

“ But,  Jeremiah,  that’s  as  much  as  to  say  that  he’s 
sincere.” 

The  elderly  clergyman,  who  really  longed  to  be 
reading  about  Mr.  Trollope’s  worldly  clergymen,  whom 
he  did  not  think  too  worldly  at  all,  paused  a moment ; 
he  had  not  always  been  elderly,  and  out  of  a far- 
off  time  shone  still  certain  gleams  of  a light  that  had 
not  been  worldly,  when  sarcasm  had  not  seemed 
synonymous  with  truth,  or  all  enthusiasm  mere  folly. 

“Why  should  we  say  he  is  not  sincere?”  he  an- 
swered, one  of  those  half-lost  gleams  lighting  his  grey 
face.  “God  is  the  judge.  / know  he  is  wrong:  but, 
if  he  doesn’t,  his  mistake  is  not  insincerity.” 

Out  of  the  pulpit  and  the  church,  alone  with  his 
wife,  he  hardly  ever  had  that  great  Name  in  his  mouth. 
His  tone  in  his  family  was  usually  urbane,  complacent, 
kindly,  and  often  jocose,  rarely  solemn. 

“ Oh,  Jerry,”  cried  his  wife,  feeling  herself,  some- 
how, nearer  to  the  days  of  their  courtship,  before  he 
was  ordained  at  all,  when  she  was  a comely  lass,  very 
proud  of  her  lover.  “ Oh,  Jerry,  you  are  a good  man.” 
And  she  plumped  down,  not  lightly,  on  the  hassock 
at  his  feet  (that  nearly  played  her  false  and  sent  her 
toppling  over),  and  hugged  him  strenuously. 


300 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XL 


“ Oh,  Jerry ! how  good  you  are ! ” 

“ No,  Nesta,  no ! ” he  protested,  almost  wishing  the 
Last  Chronicle  were  not  so  hard,  and  disliking  a scene 
as  heartily  as  she  enjoyed  it. 

“ Ah,  but  I know  better,”  the  stout  lady  cried,  kiss- 
ing her  husband’s  handsome  gold  watch-chain  (a 
presentation  from  his  last  curacy).  “ I know  better.” 
“ No,  my  girl,  no ! But  let  us  be  honest,  and  char- 
itable, if  we  can.” 


CHAPTER  XLI 


Our  papers  at  Monksbridge  only  reached  us  at  mid- 
day, but  within  an  hour  after  noon  on  Monday  all 
Monksbridge  knew  itself  famous : and,  though  no  one 
condoned  young  Auberon’s  transgression  because  our 
fame  arose  out  of  it,  the  fame  was  savoury  on  the 
palate  of  our  somewhat  remote  and  unheeded  town. 

There  was  a newspaper  called  the  Flag,  and  we  all 
knew  it  well  by  name.  Some  said  it  had  no  politics, 
few  believed  it  had  any  religion,  but  all  were  aware 
that  it  had  great  standing  and  high  influence.  It  knew 
all  that  it  behoved  omniscience  to  know;  and  it  sel- 
dom stooped  to  cognizance  of  local  or  purely  provin- 
cial matters.  What  the  Cabinets  of  Europe  had  at 
heart  it  thoroughly  understood,  what  English  folk  in 
border  counties  were  excited  about  could  raise  in 
the  columns  of  the  Flag  neither  frown  nor  smile;  such 
trivialities  were  beneath  it. 

But  on  that  marvellous  Monday  it  had  an  article — 
“ a Leading  Article,”  Mr.  Stephen  Rumble  said,  and 
he  was  conversant  with  such  high  matters — all  about 
Monksbridge.  It  had  no  title  or  heading,  and  that, 
Mr.  Rumble  explained,  proved  at  once  that  it  was  a 
Leading  Article.  I cannot  reproduce  it  here,  but 
I can  give  its  substance. 

“ There  is,”  the  Flag  instructed  its  readers,  “ a 
little  town,  far  away  on  the  Welsh  Border,  but  itself 
in  England,  in  the  great,  important,  and  opulent  county 
called  Rentshire,  in  fact : inhabited  (at  the  last  census) 

301 


302  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xli 

by  something  under  five  thousand  of  Her  Majesty’s 
lieges.  The  name  of  the  town  is  Monksbridge,  and 
that  name  enshrines  the  history  of  its  origin;  for  the 
place  grew  up  in  consequence  of  the  building  there 
of  a bridge — the  only  one  there  for  many  miles  along 
the  reaches  of  the  deep,  if  not  very  broad,  river  Tham 
— whereby  the  Rentshire  folk  could  cross  into  Wales, 
and  the  Welsh  people  pass  into  England;  and  that 
bridge  had  owed  its  existence  to  the  public  spirit  and 
munificence  of  certain  monks — the  community  of  St. 
Mary’s  Abbey,  a house  of  Benedictines  founded  by 
one  of  the  Saxon  Kings  whose  own  sixth  son  was  its 
first  Abbot.  As  the  hamlet  by  the  bridge  grew  in 
population,  the  neighbouring  monks  provided,  by  pro- 
gressive benefactions,  for  its  spiritual  and  temporal 
needs.  They  built  first  a chapel,  with  a * cell  ’ ( for 
two  priests  and  as  many  lay-brothers)  attached;  later 
on  the  cell  became  a Priory,  and  the  small  chapel 
was  succeeded  by  a stately  conventual  church;  a mar- 
ket was  inaugurated  under  charter  from  the  monarch 
whose  brother  was  Abbot  at  that  time;  the  town  was 
enclosed  within  walls — also  at  the  cost  of  the  Abbey. 
And  early  in  the  thirteenth  century  Abbot  Aymer  de 
Belesme  founded  in  the  town  a school  for  boys,  which 
he  dedicated  as  the  College  of  Our  Lady  and  St.  Peter, 
obtaining  from  the  Sovereign  a charter  of  incorpora- 
tion and  from  the  Pope  a bull  conceding  many  privi- 
leges to  the  new  foundation;  the  Pope  was  Honorius 
III.  and  the  King  was  Henry  III.,  who  was  the  Ab- 
bot’s kinsman,  that  prelate’s  mother  having  been  a 
daughter  of  the  King’s  mother  by  her  second  mar- 
riage; partly  by  the  influence  of  the  monarch,  partly 
in  reward,  no  doubt,  of  his  personal  merit,  the  Abbot- 


CH.  XLl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


303 


Founder  of  the  College  of  St.  Mary  and  St.  Peter  was, 
near  the  end  of  his  long  and  useful  life,  created  a Car- 
dinal by  Pope  Urban  IV.  Nevertheless,  his  college 
continued  to  be  called,  and  has  been  called  ever  since, 
the  Abbot’s  School.  At  his  death  the  Cardinal  (partly 
because  such  a monument  would  too  much  encroach  on 
the  smaller  space  of  the  college  chapel,  and  partly 
because  he  had  largely  rebuilt  the  chancel  of  the  ad- 
jacent Priory  Church),  was  buried  in  the  latter  place, 
in  a fine  chantry  erected  in  his  own  lifetime,  but  under 
a tomb  provided  by  the  munificence  and  gratitude  of 
the  monks  and  their  new  Abbot.  The  name  of  Car- 
dinal de  Belesme  is  more  widely  known  than  that  of 
Monksbridge,  because  he  founded,  in  addition  to  the 
local  school,  a college  at  Oxford,  where  many  emi- 
nent persons  have  been  students. 

“ It  is  time,”  said  the  article,  “ that  we  should  now 
say  something  of  the  various  scholarships  attached 
to  the  Monksbridge  school  and  the  Oxford  College. 
At  first  the  former  was  to  consist  of  a Warden,  twelve 
fellows  (in  honour  of  the  twelve  Apostles),  and 
thirty-three  scholars — in  commemoration  of  the  re- 
puted years  of  Christ’s  life  on  earth,  and  as  many 
* Town  Boys  ’ as  should  be  in  need  of  education;  these 
last  were  to  receive  education  only,  all  the  rest  were 
to  be  fed,  clothed,  and  housed.  When  the  Founder 
became  a Cardinal  he  raised  the  number  of  ‘ scholars  ’ 
to  seventy,  being  the  full  number  of  the  princes  of  the 
Church,  and  changed  their  black  gown  into  a red  one — 
which,  by  a quaint  survival,  is  still  worn  by  these 
young  people.  As  the  Founder’s  life  was  very  long, 
he,  from  time  to  time,  enriched  the  school  with  vari- 
ous prizes,  some  of  considerable  value,  in  money; 


304 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLI 

and  when  he  had  founded  his  college  at  Oxford  he 
endowed  certain  scholarships  for  students  there,  only 
eligible  to  the  ‘ Red  Boys  ’ of  his  school  at  Monks- 
bridge — one  of  these  is,  now  at  all  events,  of  the  enor- 
mous comparative  value  of  three  hundred  a year.  In 
the  deed  of  Foundation  de  Belesme  laid  down  that 
the  school  was  for  the  teaching,  first  and  foremost, 
of  the  Holy  Catholic  Faith,  to  the  knowledge  of  which 
all  other  learning,  how  pretty  and  convenient  soever 
as  ornament  and  ’broidery,  was  but  handmaiden  and 
servant.  Accordingly,  to  every  one  of  his  prizes  and 
scholarships  was  annexed  the  condition  that  the  can- 
didate should  prove  his  proficiency  in  such  knowledge 
of  the  teaching  of  the  Holy  Roman  and  Catholic 
Church.  No  Town  Boy  could  be  advanced  to  the  red 
gown  without  satisfying  the  Warden  and  Fellows 
of  his  proper  science  in  these  matters;  and,  later  on, 
when  Peter  College  (now  known  everywhere  as 
Balaam,  a supposed  corruption  of  Belesme  or  de 
Belesme)  was  founded,  the  Cardinal  decreed  that  no 
Monksbridge  scholar  should  be  awarded  his  great 
Exhibition  (Prize,  it  was  called  then),  except  he  who 
should  best  treat  in  Latin  of  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion of  ‘ Godde’s  Mother,’  of  Transubstantiation  in 
the  Eucharist,  of  the  Primacy  of  Peter  (Heavenly  Pa- 
tron of  the  College),  and  of  the  Office  and  Intercession 
of  Angels  and  Saints. 

“ The  remoteness  of  Monksbridge  may  partly,  but 
cannot  wholly,  account  for  its  comparative  immunity 
at  the  Reformation.  King  Henry,  of  conjugal  and 
very  pious  memory,  made  short  work  of  the  great 
neighbouring  abbey,  and  did  so  well  out  of  its  spoils, 
and  of  those  of  the  town  priory,  that  perhaps  he 


CH.  XLl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


305 


spared  the  college  with  less  reluctance.  The  Abbot 
refused  the  Oath  of  Supremacy  in  religion,  and  was 
duly  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  with  little  of 
that  tedious  delay  so  common  in  affairs  of  law;  as 
were,  then  or  afterwards,  most  of  the  monks.  The 
Monksbridge  Prior  had  the  same  difficulty  in  perceiv- 
ing how  the  King  could  be  head  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  seems  to  have  been  of  an  argumentative 
disposition;  according  to  him,  either  the  old  religion 
was  wrong  or  the  Pope  was  right,  and  he  also  was 
hanged,  as  His  Majesty  loved  ever  to  keep  the  last 
word  in  an  argument.  The  Warden  of  Abbot’s  saw 
his  neighbour  die,  and  he,  good  easy  man,  felt  him- 
self unwofthy  of  the  Martyr’s  Crown;  to  get  to 
heaven,  body  and  soul,  was  plainly  desirable,  but  to 
arrive  there  in  detachments,  from  the  four  places 
where  his  four  quarters  might  be  disposed,  was  but  a 
confusing  idea.  He  took  the  oath,  and  subscribed 
everything — the  Six  Articles,  and  what  not — as  sub- 
scription was  required.  Meekly  following  his  lead, 
four  of  the  twelve  fellows  did  the  like;  the  other  eight 
were  imprisoned,  five  died  of  the  rigour  of  their  con- 
finement, three  were  hanged.  As  the  fellowships  fell 
vacant,  they  were  filled  by  gentlemen  of  the  Court,  to 
whom  the  King  explained  that  so  great  an  honour 
needed  no  recompense,  and  their  stalls  became  hon- 
orary, and  were  mostly  unoccupied  by  their  holders. 
Under  Henry  there  was  no  Wardeness.  Under  Ed- 
ward VI.  the  then  Warden  conquered  any  personal 
predilection  for  clerical  celibacy  he  may  have  felt,  and 
dutifully  espoused  a waiting-woman  in  the  household 
of  the  Lord  Protector — a termagant,  but  useful  to  her 
husband. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


3°6 


[CH.  XLI 


“ And  why  do  we  regale  our  readers  with  all  this 
pretty  archaeology?  Because  an  odd  thing  has  hap- 
pened, and  Monksbridge  is  all  agog.  It  seems  that 
among  the  Red  Boys  of  Abbot’s  School,  the  Cardinal’s 
Seventy,  is  one  Auberon,  with  the  appropriate  name  of 
Peter,  appropriate  to  the  College  of  St.  Mary  and 
St.  Peter,  and  to  that  of  St.  Peter’s  House  at  Oxford, 
the  great  scholarship  in  which,  already  mentioned, 
he  has  lately  gained — whether  in  reward  of  his  trea- 
tises concerning  the  Conception  of  the  Virgin,  etc., 
we  will  not  presume  to  decide.  This  youth,  of  eighteen 
summers,  should  in  due  course  proceed  to  Oxford  in 
the  enjoyment  of  the  prize  he  has  earned.  But  lo! 
a portent.  A clergyman’s  son,  and  (as  report  de- 
clares) prospective  son-in-law  of  a bishop,  the  lad  in- 
continently proclaims  himself  a Catholic!  Tableau! 
For  three  centuries  and  some  twenty  years,  Abbot’s 
School  has  been  duly  Protestant : a flower  on  the  fair 
robe  of  the  Establishment.  And  lo,  on  its  hem  appears 
a Popish  weed!  What  next?  To  ‘Balaam’  it  seems 
certain  he  cannot  go  as  Cardinal’s  Exhibitioner.  Is 
his  Exhibition  vacant?  Must  it  remain  so  till  he  dies? 
He  cannot  draw  the  income  of  that  Exhibition — or 
can  he?  If  not,  who  can?  Can  any  one?  Can  any 
other  boy  gain  it?  Or  is  he  still  in  possession?  At 
Abbot’s  School  he  clearly  cannot  remain,  even  if  he 
chose;  for  the  Red  Boys  are  ex  officio  choristers,  and 
whether  they  can  sing  or  no,  must  sing  in  the  Prot- 
estant services  of  the  Protestant  Priory  Church. 
These  be  great  questions : and  the  answer  to  them 
may  direct  a belated  light  upon  the  whole  fabric  of 
Abbot’s  School.  Has  there  ever  been  any  Parliamen- 
tary Statute  whereby  the  de  facto  Protestantism  of 


CH.  XLl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


307 


Abbot’s  School  is  made  de  jure  and  obligatory?  If 
not,  such  Statute  may,  and  probably  must,  be  provided. 
One  scents  a Royal  Commission  in  the  air.  But  if  no 
present  Statute  to  the  point  exists,  and  a new  one 
is  ‘indicated’  (as  the  faculty  say),  how  can  such 
Statute  be  retrospective?  How  can  young  Auberon 
(who  raises  the  Catholic  population  of  the  world  to 
three  hundred  millions  and  one)  be  dispossessed  of 
his  lawfully  earned  income  as  Cardinal  de  Belesme’s 
Exhibitioner  ? 

“ We  pause  for  a reply.” 

There  was  a good  deal  more  of  the  article ; I have 
only  quoted  some  paragraphs;  and  every  word  in  it 
was  read  again  and  again  by  everybody  at  Monks- 
bridge  who  got  hold  of  the  paper.  Lady  Llantwddwy 
heard  of  the  articles  from  her  maid,  and  borrowed 
the  paper  from  her  butler.  Miss  Belvoir  tried  hard 
to  borrow  a copy,  and  had  to  send  out  and  buy  one — 
which  confirmed  her  bad  opinion  of  young  Auberon. 
There  were  half  a dozen  copies  flying  about  Abbot’s 
School,  and  at  Prior’s  House  there  was  one.  The  Mayor 
had  it,  and  all  the  Aldermen;  every  lawyer  in  the  two 
towns  had  his  copy,  and  old  Mr.  Stiff  declared  that 
he  should  not  be  surprised  if  young  Auberon  should 
prove  to  have  a case;  but  then,  every  one  knew  he 
was  a Dissenter  and  would  rejoice  to  believe  in  any- 
thing tiresome,  as  likely  to  happen  to  a Church  foun- 
dation. The  Rev.  Mr.  Bibble  was  shocked  to  think 
how  carelessly  the  Reformers  had  dealt  with  such  a 
place — dedicated  to  “ Our  Lady  and  St.  Peter.” 

By  bedtime  half  the  tradesmen  in  Monksbridge  had 
it  on  good  authority  that  young  Auberon  was  going 
to  claim  four  thousand  pounds  damages  from  the 


308  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xli 

Warden  and  Fellows,  and  half  of  that  half  saw  no 
reason  why  he  shouldn’t  get  them. 

Mrs.  Hawthorn  thought  it  likely  enough  that  the 
eldest  Miss  Auberon’s  brother  would  claim  anything, 
no  matter  how  iniquitous,  but  had  too  much  confidence 
in  the  Lord  Chancellor  (who  must  be  a Protestant) 
to  believe  he  would  get  sixpence.  The  Vicar  pooh- 
poohed  the  whole  idea  of  the  claim,  but  thought  the 
point  of  law  interesting,  and  would  not  deny  that 
there  might  be  some  inquiry  into  the  income  of  the 
school,  and  its  application,  which  would  perhaps  give 
his  neighbour  the  Warden  some  trouble. 

“ They’re  cutting  everything  down,”  he  observed, 
“ and  twelve  hundred  a year  and  extras — house,  coals, 
lighting,  and  what  not — is  too  much,  now  they’re  cut- 
ting down  the  bishops  and  deans.” 

The  Warden  himself  was  angrier  with  Auberon 
than  he  had  been  yet — especially  when  he  received, 
at  luncheon  time  on  Monday,  a telegram  from  the 
Bishop  of  Lowminster  saying  it  would  not  be  pos- 
sible for  him  to  preach  at  Monksbridge,  as  he  was 
confined  to  his  bed  at  Rood  Palace  with  an  attack 
of  gout.  The  Bishop  had  heard  from  Lord  Monks- 
bridge by  that  morning’s  post,  and  on  the  top  of  the 
letter  came  that  article  in  the  Flag.  It  was  when  he 
read  in  it  that  the  now  notorious  Peter  Auberon  was 
“ prospective  son-in-law  to  a bishop,”  that  the  pros- 
pective “ father-in-law  ” took  to  his  bed.  The  inde- 
cency of  the  modern  press  (he  had  always  been  strong 
for  its  “ freedom  ”)  quite  sickened  him.  And  in  his 
bed  only,  if  indeed  there,  could  he  escape  the  conjec- 
tural face  of  Miss  Garboyle.  She  knew  he  was  going 
to  Monksbridge,  and  she  knew  that  her  papa  had  been 


MONKSBRIDGE 


309 


CH.  XLl] 

meeting  these  Auberons,  in  grand  houses  whither  she 
had  not  been  taken.  Of  course  she  also  read  the 
article,  as  did  other  bishops’  daughters;  but  her  papa 
was  the  only  bachelor  or  widower  bishop  in  England. 

“ Son-in-law  to  a bishop,”  she  cried.  “ What  can 
the  man  mean?  A boy  of  eighteen  can’t  be  engaged 
to  be  married.” 

“ Of  course  not,  of  course  not,”  almost  moaned  her 
father.  “ It  is  just  the  scandalous  licence  of  the  press. 
Probably  the  wretched,  misguided  lad  never  saw  a 
bishop’s  daughter,  or  a bishop  either,  in  his  life.” 

“ Oh,  but,  papa,  he  is  eighteen.  He  must  have  seen 
a bishop  if  he  has  been  confirmed ” 

‘*And  very  likely  he  has  not,”  her  papa  declared, 
as  though  endeavouring  to  account  for  the  lad’s  fall. 

“ Then  his  parents — his  mother  (he  has  no  father, 
it  appears) ” 

“ No,  my  dear.  She  is  a widow — a widow  of  long 
standing.” 

“ Ah ! But  she  must  be  greatly  to  blame  herself 
if  her  only  son  has  never  (at  eighteen)  been  con- 
firmed. It’s  like  a cottager,  or  those  manufacturing 
people.  I never  heard  of  a lady  with  unconfirmed 
sons  nearly  grown  up.  As  you  say,  it  seems  only 
too  likely  the  poor  neglected  youth  never  was  con- 
firmed— but  what  a responsibility  for  her!  What 
must  she  be  feeling  now?” 

The  Bishop  had  scarcely  leisure  to  imagine  how 
any  one  else  was  feeling,  he  knew  too  well  what  he 
was  feeling  himself.  But  he  didn’t  like  to  hear  Mrs. 
Auberon  thus  solemnly  condemned,  and,  of  course, 
he  had  no  reason  whatever  for  supposing  that  the 
poor  lady’s  son  had  never  been  confirmed. 


310  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xli 

He  moaned  a little  and  said,  “ In  the  foot.  I hope 
it  won’t  rise  to  the  stomach.” 

“No,  papa.  We  must  hope  not;  but  why  should 
it  ? it  never  has,  you  know.  ‘ Son-in-law  ’ — in  books 
they  often  call  step-sons  sons-in-law;  Dickens  does. 
Do  you  think  the  man  means  step-son,  papa  ? ” 

There  was  that  in  Miss  Garboyle’s  tone  that  made 
her  father  quail. 

“No,  Carry;  I don’t  suppose  he  meant  anything 
but  insolence.  There’s  an  animus  in  the  whole  arti- 
cle— a sneering  tone  against  the  Church;  some  Rad- 
ical fellow  of  no  sort  of  Church  principles.” 

Now,  Miss  Garboyle  was  not  used  to  hearing  Rad- 
icals severely  handled;  her  papa  was  only  a Whig, 
but,  even  then,  Whigs  had  Radical  friends  and  sup- 
porters. 

“ Perhaps,”  she  suggested,  “ he’s  a Tory  and  a 
Roman  Catholic.” 

“ Perhaps,”  agreed  the  Bishop,  though  he  did  not 
think  so;  then,  his  native  honesty  (and  his  habit  of 
setting  his  daughter  right)  prevailed,  and  he  added : 
“No,  Carry;  you  don’t  understand  these  things. 
There  are  no  Roman  Catholics  connected  with  the 
Flag;  they’re  all  Radicals  and  Disestablishment  peo- 
ple, and  the  tone  is  . . . But  you  don’t  understand  at 
all.  I think  I shall  have  to  go  to  bed.” 

“ Yes,  do,  papa.  ‘ Step-son!  ’ I wonder  if  it  means 
step-son?  ” 

Then  the  Bishop  fled,  and  from  his  bedroom  sent 
off  the  telegram  excusing  himself  from  coming  to 
Monksbridge.  Miss  Garboyle  knew  it  had  been  dis- 
patched, and  she  was  quite  sure  that  “ the  man  meant 
step-son.”  Young  Auberon  must  be  an  abandoned 


MONKSBRIDGE 


311 


CH.  XLl] 

lad,  but  she  had  never  expected  much  from  the  fam- 
ily; and  certainly  Providence  does  marvellously  bring 
good  out  of  evil.  On  the  whole  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that,  if  some  ill-disposed  and  ill-guided  youth 
was  to  become  a Roman  Catholic,  it  was  a wonder- 
fully lucky  thing  that  Mrs.  Auberon’s  son  should  be 
the  boy.  It  seemed  to  her  quite  impossible  that  a 
bishop  who  had  written  so  much,  and  preached  so 
much,  and  spoken  (even  in  London)  so  much  against 
Rome  and  the  Scarlet  Lady  of  that  ilk,  could  so  far 
forget  himself  as  to  become  “ father-in-law  ” to  a 
notorious  young  apostate  of  whom  England  was  hear- 
ing. “ The  man,”  no  doubt,  was  a conscienceless 
fellow,  who  would  be  ready  to  do  any  mischief  in  the 
cause  of  Disestablishment  and  so  on  (Disestablish- 
ment, she  concluded,  meant  doing  away  with  bishops 
and  their  palaces),  but,  after  all,  her  papa  had  always 
taught  her  that  the  liberty  of  the  press  was  our  safe- 
guard, and  in  this  instance  it  might  prove  to  have 
been  hers. 

The  Warden,  when  he  got  the  Bishop’s  telegram, 
was  reading  the  article  aloud  to  Mrs.  FitzSimon, 
and  he  almost  swore.  Swear  he  never  did,  but  he 
meant  nearly  the  same  thing  when  he  cried  out — 

“ Good  heavens ! What  a feeble  creature ! What 
an  idiot!” 

“Who,  my  dear?”  asked  Mrs.  Fitz,  with  eager 
curiosity. 

“ Why,  Garboyle — the  Bishop.  He  won’t  come. 
He’s  gone  to  bed.  ‘ Prospective  son-in-law  to  a 
bishop,’  that’s  what  has  sent  him  to  bed  with  the  gout, 
and  the  old  fool  ” (the  Warden  was  ten  months  the 


MONKSBRIDGE 


312 


[ch.  xli 


elder  of  the  two)  “ can’t  see  that  he’s  fitting  the  cap 
on  his  own  head.  Good  gracious ! ” 

“ And  do  you  mean,”  demanded  Mrs.  Fitz,  with 
rising  fierceness,  “ that  he  was  coming  here  to  see 
her?  You  do?  Then  I call  it  a gross  impertinence. 
Did  you  ask  him?  Didn’t  he  propose  himself?  Did 
we  want  him?  And  he  oils  himself  into  our  house 
to  carry  on  a liaison  with  a widow ! ” 

“A  liaison?  fie,  my  dear!  No  doubt  he  meant  to 
propose  to  her.” 

“ Propose!  to  propose — to  Mrs.  Auberon,  from  this 
Warden’s  Lodge ! And  he  a bishop,  and  she  a curate’s 
widow ! ” 

“ Well,  he  couldn’t  exactly  propose  to  a curate’s 
wife.  But  what  a pusillanimous  old  woman!” 
“Pusillanimous!  Old  woman,  if  you  like;  for  all 
she  pretends  she  married  at  sixteen,  I’ll  engage  she’ll 
never  see  forty-five  again.  ‘ Pusillanimous ! ’ rather 
the  contrary;  barefaced,  you  should  say.  If  I were  a 
widow ” 

“ God  forbid,  my  dear.  And  let  us  hope  that,  if 
any  such  accident  befell,  you’d  be  a bishop’s  widow 
yourself.  Well,  well;  let  him  stop  away.” 

“ I shouldn’t  think  he’d  show  his  face  here  in  a 
hurry,  now  all  the  world  knows.  After  proposing 
himself,  and  I bought  things  for  his  bedroom,  a china 
inkstand  and  a new  quilt;  at  least  I bought  them 
at  the  bazaar,  and  decided  to  put  them  on  his 
bed.” 

Presently  the  Warden  went  back  to  the  article  in 
the  Flag;  he  had  hardly  got  beyond  the  prospective 
son-in-law  when  the  Bishop’s  telegram  arrived,  and  his 
anger  against  young  Auberon  gathered  as  he  reached 


CH.  XLl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


3i3 


the  final  paragraphs.  So,  forsooth,  because  a slip 
of  a boy  in  his  own  school  had  decided  that  the  Church 
of  England  wasn’t  good  enough  for  him,  there  was 
to  be  an  inquiry  into  the  whole  legal  status  of  Abbot’s 
and  its  endowments!  That  sort  of  wickedness  was 
in  the  air — and  the  Flag  was  precisely  the  sort  of 
quarter  whence  such  pestilential  winds  were  likely 
to  blow. 

“ They’re  cutting  everything  down,”  he  declared, 
with  a black  frown.  “ Bishops’  incomes,  Deaneries — 
everything:  and  this  Wardenship  is  one  of  the  best 
things  in  the  Church.  I know  many  deans  think  it 
a better  thing  than  what  they’ve  got.  Our  foundation 
is  all  land,  and  it  has  gone  on  improving  in  value — 
so  much  of  it  built  on,  and  old  common-land  enclosed 
and  improved.  Good  gracious!  And  all  to  come 
from  the  action  of  a moony-pated  boy ! ” 

“ He  has  bad  blood,  my  dear.  You  never  know  how 
it’ll  come  out.  But — Warden!  Do  you  really  think 
they’ll  cut  us  down?” 

And  Mrs.  Fitz  turned  almost  as  bad  a colour  as 
if  she  were  hanging  already. 

“ Do  you  think,”  she  added,  “ he’ll  claim,  as  the 
man  in  the  paper  seems  to  think  he  might  ? ” 

“ There’s  no  saying  what  he’ll  do ; but  it  isn’t  any 
claim  of  his  I should  fear — that  would  be  a small 
matter,  and  besides,  it’s  nonsense.” 

“ But  the  Flag  seems  to  think  it  isn’t  nonsense.” 

“ Oh,  the  Flag!  The  Flag  will  say  anything,  and 
pretend  to  think  anything;  it’s  a Royal  Commission, 

or  an  inquiry  I should  dislike : that  would ” 

“Good  gracious,  Herbert!  You  really  think  they 
might  cut  us  down ! ” cried  Mrs.  Fitz  again. 


314  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xli 

At  that  moment  in  Prior’s  House  her  friend  the 
Vicar  was  saying — 

“ I really  think  if  there  was  an  inquiry  they’d  be  cut 
down;  they’d  feel  it.” 

“ I should  think  so,”  Mrs.  Hawthorn  agreed  com- 
fortably; “of  course,  they’ve  never  saved  a penny; 
living  so  high  and  always  expecting  to  get  a deanery 
or  something.” 


CHAPTER  XLII 


On  Monday  evening  our  servant,  Hannah,  observed  to 
Mamma  that  all  the  town  was  talking  of  Mr.  Peter, 
and  how  he  was  going  to  get  five  thousand  pounds 
damages  out  of  Abbot’s  School;  and  presently,  in  a 
great  flutter,  Mamma  came  into  the  drawing-room  and 
told  us  about  it.  Hannah  had  lent  her  the  paper,  and 
now  Sylvia  took  it. 

“ Read  it  aloud,  dear,”  begged  Mamma,  settling 
herself  down  to  knit. 

“ For  goodness’  sake  don’t,”  said  Perkin;  “ I’m  sick 
of  it  already.  When  I was  out,  a dozen  people  were  at 
me  about  it.  It’s  a horrible  thing  that  the  papers  can’t 
let  people  alone : and  it’s  written  by  some  radical  fellow 
who  wants  to  make  a bother  or ” 

“You’ve  read  it  yourself,  then?”  Sylvia  interrupted. 

“ Yes.  Hours  ago.  Please  don’t  read  it  aloud — it 
makes  me  sick.” 

Sylvia  took  no  notice  of  this,  and  was  evidently 
going  to  read  the  article  aloud.  So  Perkin  went  off  to 
the  library  and  wrote  a letter.  Then  Mamma  said 
what  Hannah  had  told  her.  When  she  came  to  the 
prospective  son-in-law  Sylvia  stumbled  and  pouted 
angrily,  and  I got  red  in  the  face;  poor  Mamma’s 
fingers  trembled  as  she  knitted,  and  instead  of  blushing 
she  grew  quite  pale.  I think  she  was  hurt,  too,  with 
Sylvia  for  reading  the  thing  aloud,  though  at  her  own 
request. 

315 


316  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xlii 

Poor  Mamma!  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  all  England 
were  talking  about  her. 

Sylvia,  when  she  had  finished  the  article,  felt  rather 
less  angry  with  Perkin;  he  was  a bad,  tiresome  boy, 
who  had  done  great  mischief — but  Hannah  had  said 
that  everybody  thought  he  would  get  five  thousand 
pounds  “ damages,”  and  the  Flag  clearly  thought  that 
something  of  the  kind  might  be  possible.  A boy  of 
eighteen,  with  five  thousand  pounds,  might  be  (and 
this  boy  was)  thoroughly  naughty,  senseless,  and  mis- 
behaving; still,  one  could  not  despise  him  quite  in  the 
same  way  as  if  he  had  simply  thrown  all  he  had  away. 

At  that  moment  Perkin  was  on  his  way  to  Warden’s 
Lodge  with  a note  that  he  had  written  in  the  library. 
At  the  Doctor’s  door  he  rang,  and  presently  gave  the 
note  to  the  Doctor’s  Willoughby,  who  stared  at  him  as 
though  a burglar  had  called  to  say  he  would  look  in 
again  after  the  family  should  have  gone  to  bed. 

“ Please,”  said  Perkin,  “ give  that  to  the  Warden.” 

The  Willoughby  hesitated  to  undertake  any  such 
(probably)  treasonable  commission;  but  Perkin 
promptly  went  away,  and  the  man  retreated  to  his 
pantry,  for  a salver  and  advice. 

“ Young  Auberon’s  just  bin  and  left  this — for  the 
Warden,”  he  explained,  calling  next  in  the  kitchen. 

“ Well,  I never ! ” cried  the  cook.  “ What  brass ! ” 

She  and  both  housemaids  crowded  round  the  note, 
and  eyed  it  as  though  it  were  an  infernal  machine  duly 
labelled  as  such. 

“ Him,”  exclaimed  the  under-housemaid,  “ as  is  for 
turning  master  and  all  of  us  out  of  house  and  home ! ” 

As  it  happened,  the  Doctor’s  bell  rang  at  that 
moment,  and  Willoughby  went  upstairs,  note  and  all. 


CH.  XLIl] 


MONKSBRIDGE 


3i7 


“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  said  apologetically, 
when  face  to  face  with  his  master,  “ but  a person  left 
this  at  the  front  door.” 

“ I heard  the  bell,  and  thought  it  might  be  the 
second  master,  and  I wish  to  see  him.  I said  ‘Not  at 
home’;  but  I wish  to  see  him  if  he  comes  across.” 

The  Warden  took  the  note,  and  Willoughby  had  to 
go.  He  would  have  lingered  outside,  in  case  a mes- 
senger for  the  police  were  required,  but  he  saw  his 
mistress  coming  upstairs,  and  reluctantly  went  down 
to  the  kitchen. 

“ What  did  he  say  ? ” demanded  the  cook. 

“ He  didn’t  say  naught.  He  didn’t  seem  to  reckonize 
the  writin’.” 

“ Poor  lamb ! ” cried  the  under-housemaid.  “ / 
shouldn’t  have  had  the  ’art  to  give  it  him,  not  if  it 
had  been  me.” 

“ It  couldn’t  be  you,”  observed  the  upper-housemaid. 
“ On  Willoughby’s  days  out  it’s  my  place  to  take  letters 
up.  You  talk  wild,  ’Melia.” 

Meanwhile  the  Warden  had  read  the  note,  which 
was  not  long.  This  was  all : — 


“ Cross  Place, 

“ Monday  Night. 

“Dear  Warden, 

“ I have  seen  that  hateful  article  in  the  Flag. 
How  on  earth  they  got  hold  of  it  I can’t  help  wonder- 
ing. No  one  knew  here  till  Saturday  afternoon.  I write 
to  say  this:  I resign  to  you,  if  it  be  necessary,  any 
scholarships  or  exhibitions  I held,  any  rights  (if  I had 
any)  as  a Cardinal’s  scholar  at  Abbot’s.  I simply 
took  it  for  granted  that  my  becoming  a Catholic 


MONKSBRIDGE 


3i8 


[CH.  XLII 


deprived  me  of  them,  as  I still  believe  is  the  case.  If 
by  any  chance  I was  wrong,  and  any  one  could  pretend 
they  are  not  vacant,  and  if  it  would,  therefore,  save 
you  any  trouble  or  annoyance  to  say  that  I have  myself 
resigned  them  to  you  in  writing,  I now  do  so.  I dare 
say  you  may  think  me  very  officious,  but  I wanted,  if 
I could,  to  save  you  any  possible  trouble.  Thanking 
you  again  for  all  your  kindness,  and  especially  on 
Saturday  evening,  I am, 

“ Yours  respectfully, 

“ Peter  Auberon.” 


His  critics  said  that  the  Warden  was  weak,  and  he 
could  not  help  admiring  the  boy.  He  had  been  angry 
with  him,  had  softened  towards  him,  had  become  much 
more  angry  with  him,  and  now  he  softened  again. 

“ Warden,”  said  Mrs.  FitzSimon,  coming  into  the 
room,  “ I can’t  get  this  worry  out  of  my  head.  The 
very  servants  know  all  about  it.  I can  see  that  they 
are  wondering  how  soon  we  shall  be  cut  down.” 

“ My  dear  Sarah ! Don’t  be  so — so  precipitous, 
precipitate,  I would  say.  That’s  nonsense.  Even  if 
there  were  an  inquiry,  it  would  take  months  to  appoint 
the  commission,  and  months  and  months  for  them  to 
act;  and  then  there  would  be  their  report  and  all 
sorts  of  formalities;  and,  even  if  any  changes  were  to 
be  made,  it  would  not  be  for  a long  time.  Besides, 
there  would  be  compensation  for  vested  rights,  if  the 
worst  came  to  the  worst.  I see  by  the  evening  paper 
that  the  Dean  of  Battersea  is  very  bad — a stroke,  and 
his  third  ...” 

“ Old  Dr.  Combe-Bisset ! Well,  he  is  over  ninety, 
and  has  been  Dean  forty  years.  Poor  dear  old  man! 


MONKSBRIDGE 


3i9 


CH.  XLIl] 

What  courage  you  have,  Herbert!  But  there’ll  be  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  if  this  brat  of  a boy  should  go  to 
law  with  us.” 

“ Pfh!  He’ll  do  no  such  thing.” 

“Oh,  you’re  so  trustful!  You  play  no  dirty  tricks 
yourself,  you  never  scheme;  and  you  can’t  imagine 
that  others  will.” 

“ My  dear,  he’ll  play  no  dirty  tricks.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried  Mrs.  Fitz,  shaking  her  head  dolor- 
ously, “ you  don’t  realize  the  power  and  astuteness 
of  the  Jesuits — and,  of  course,  this  wretched  boy  is 
in  their  hands.” 

“ My  dear,  there  are  no  Jesuits  at  Llanthamy.  Read 
that.”  And  the  Warden  thrust  Perkin’s  letter  into  her 
hands. 

She  read  it  slowly  (having  left  her  glasses  down- 
stairs, she  had  to  hold  it  afar  off),  and  was  not 
immediately  impressed. 

“ ‘ Cross  Place,’  ” she  cried.  Then,  turning  to  the 
signature,  “ He,  to  write  to  you ! What  insolence ! 
The  indecency  of  the  lad!” 

“ Read  it,  my  dear,  read  it,”  begged  the  Warden. 

“ Well!  ” said  Mrs.  Fitz,  when  she  had  read  it,  “ I 
call  it  a piece  of  impertinence.  Resign  his  scholarships, 
indeed!  As  if  they  were  his!  and  he  turned  out  of 
them  for  apostasy!  It  merely  shows  how  utterly 
without  a leg  to  stand  on  he  feels  himself.  And  why 
should  he  call  it  a hateful  article  ? Sheer  hypocrisy — 
his  sister  all  over.  Why,  the  article  is  all  on  his  side. 
My  belief  is  he  wrote  it.” 

“ Sarah,  that’s  absurd.  But  I wonder  who  did  write 
it — or,  rather,  how  the  writer  knew  about  Auberon  and 
all  that?” 


320  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xlii 

“ No  one  knew  except  himself,”  Mrs.  Fitz  declared 
with  angry  scorn,  tossing  back  her  maize  ribbons, 
which  (said  Mrs.  Stephen  Rumble)  she  wore  to  carry 
out  her  complexion. 

“ No,  no ! ” said  the  Warden,  “ it  wasn’t  Auberon. 
But  who  was  it?” 

“ Mr.  Porker ! ” announced  Willoughby,  opening 
the  door  to  usher  in  the  second  master. 

“ Come  in,  come  in!  ” said  the  Warden,  not  resent- 
ing the  interruption  of  his  tete-a-tete.  “ Porker,”  he 
went  on,  when  Willoughby  had  disappeared,  “ Mrs. 
FitzSimon  and  I were  wondering  who  could  have 
written  the  article — who  could,  I mean,  have  supplied 
the  data.” 

But  Mrs.  Fitz  wondered  no  longer.  She  had  a fine 
faculty  for  getting  hold  of  the  wrong  end  of  a stick, 
but  a lady  who  is  always  seizing  sticks  must  now  and 
then  catch  one  by  the  right  end.  When  Willoughby 
had  announced  Mr.  Porker,  he  had  told  her  the  answer 
to  her  husband’s  question. 

“ An  indecent  article  whoever  wrote  it ! ” she 
observed,  with  a flaming  coldness,  turning  to  the  fire- 
place, but  not  losing  sight  of  the  second  master  in  the 
glass  over  it. 

Minerva  only  stared  at  nothing  out  of  her  round 
blind  eyes,  and  Gibbon  merely  went  on  simpering  fatly, 
but  Mrs.  Fitz  took  no  heed  of  either,  and  looked  care- 
fully into  the  mirror. 

“ A wicked,  incendiary  article  ” she  cried.  “ But 
what  can  you  expect  from  the  Flag?  ” 

Now  Mr.  Porker’s  younger  brother  was  a rising 
member  of  the  staff  of  that  powerful,  but  nefarious 
paper;  had  he  ever  bragged  of  it?  He  thought  not, 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XLIl] 


321 


but  could  not  be  sure.  He  wished  to  Heaven  he  could 
be  sure. 

“ A regrettable  article,”  he  confessed.  “ It  raises 
questions ” 

“Regrettable!”  almost  screamed  Mrs.  Fitz,  “vile 
and  traitorous.” 

“ Mrs.  FitzSimon,”  the  Warden  interposed,  almost 
jocosely  (willing  to  be  revenged  on  the  partner  of  his 
joys,  and  the  cause  of  some  of  his  minor  arrogancies) 
— “ Mrs.  FitzSimon  thinks  that  Auberon  himself 
supplied  the  data ! ” 

“ Does  she,  really  ? ” remarked  Mr.  Porker,  as  if  a 
good  deal  struck  by  her  acuteness.  And  Mrs.  Fitz  saw 
him,  very  plainly,  in  the  glass. 

“ I did,  for  a moment,”  she  observed.  “ I know 
better  now.” 

Her  tone  was  not  lost  on  either  of  her  hearers.  The 
Warden  looked  puzzled,  and  Mr.  Porker  did  his  best 
to  look  puzzled  too. 

“ I should  not  think,”  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands 
nervously,  “ that  Auberon  would  take  any  such  step  as 
the  Flag  seems  to  think  he  might.” 

“ Of  course  not,”  said  the  lady,  as  if  such  an  idea 
could  enter  no  head  but  Mr.  Porker’s  and  that  of  the 
writer  in  the  odious  Flag. 

“ He  might , of  course,”  pleaded  the  wavering 
second  master. 

“ Tut,  tut ! ” said  Mrs.  Fitz.  “ All  the  low  papers 
in  the  world  couldn’t  make  a boy  like  that  do  such  an 
indecent  thing.” 

“ His  friends — his  new  friends,”  urged  Mr.  Porker, 
“ might  persuade  him — for  the  sake  of  the  cause — the 


322  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xlii 

Catholic  cause — a mere  boy  in  the  hands  of  Jesuitical 
intriguers.” 

“Tut,  tut!  There  are  no  Jesuits  at  Llanthamy,” 
cried  Mrs.  Fitz,  impatiently.  “Only  one  old  snuffy 

priest;  Father  McGuire  or  O’  something ” 

“ My  dear  Porker,”  interposed  the  Warden, 
“ Auberon  will  do  no  such  thing.  Mrs.  FitzSimon  ” 
(the  second  master  was  an  elderly  bachelor,  and  the 
Warden  had — in  his  weaker  moments — envied  him;  he 
was  not  unwilling  to  thrust  wifely  wisdom  down  his 
throat  now).  “ Mrs.  FitzSimon  is  quite  correct  in 
her  opinion.  Auberon  has  written  to  resign,  if  any 
such  resignation  could  to  human  perversity  be  thought 
necessary,  any  rights  or  scholarships  he  held  here. 

Quite  unnecessary,  of  course ” 

“ Ridiculously  unnecessary,”  said  Mr.  Porker. 

“ Perhaps,”  interrupted  Mrs.  Fitz,  “ but  decently 
meant;  a gentleman’s  action;  rendered  less  foolish  by 
the  appearance  of  such  an  outrageous,  mischief- 
intending article,  written  by  a penny-a-liner’s ” 

“ My  dear!  ” cried  the  Warden,  “ who  can  say  who 
wrote  it  ? ” 

“ No  one  will  say,”  observed  Mrs.  Fitz,  with  a fell 
coolness,  turning  round  abruptly,  “ but  we  can  guess.” 

“ Sarah ! ” said  the  Warden,  when  the  second  master 
had  gone  at  last,  “ what  did  you  mean?  Your  fierce- 
ness positively  frightened  Porker.” 

“ I meant  it  to.  He  did  it.” 

“ Wrote  the  article!” 

“ Sent  the  data  as  you  call  them.  He  has  boasted 
of  a brother  of  his  on  the  Press — the  Times,  he  would 
have  liked  us  to  think.  Mark  my  words,  he  sent  the 


ch.  xlii]  MONKSBRIDGE  323 

data.  That  brother  of  his  is  on  the  Flag.  He  sent 
the  data.” 

To  do  him  justice,  Mr.  Porker  would  have  given  his 
eyes  not  to  have  sent  them.  When,  on  leaving  the 
Warden’s  study  late  on  Saturday  afternoon  he  had 
walked  out  to  the  railway  station — four  miles  from 
Monksbridge,  as  the  reader  may  recollect — he  had  not 
at  first  intended  to  do  any  such  thing.  He  often  took 
that  walk  for  the  sake  of  exercise,  and  because  he 
liked  to  see  a train  come  in  or  go  out;  and  on  this 
particular  evening  he  expected  a parcel  which  he  knew 
would  not  be  delivered  till  Monday,  unless  he  fetched 
it  himself.  All  the  way,  however,  he  was  thinking  of 
young  Auberon,  and  wondering  whether  a new  exami- 
nation would  have  to  be  held  for  the  scholarship  at 
“ Balaam,”  or  whether  the  boy  who  had  scored  second 
marks,  after  Auberon,  would  be  entitled  to  the  scholar- 
ship by  succession,  so  to  speak.  At  the  station  he  first 
thought  of  sending  a telegram  to  his  brother,  and 
what  he  sent  was  only  this : — 

To 

Wiltshire  Porker,  Esq.,  Cannibals  Club,  London. 
Excitement  here.  Peter  Auberon,  eighteen,  son 
clergyman’s  widow  here,  Cardinal’s  Scholar  Abbot’s, 
and  recent  gainer  Cardinal’s  Scholarship,  Balaam, 
turned  Catholic,  vacates  everything. — Matthias. 

1 

When  the  younger  Mr.  Porker  received  the  message 
he  was  dining  at  the  Cannibals  Club  with  a country 
friend,  the  Rev.  Austin  Singer,  a Minor  Canon  of 
Lowminster,  who  had  just  told  him  that  his  Bishop 
was  shortly  proceeding  to  Monksbridge,  ostensibly  to 


324  MONKSBRIDGE  [ch.  xlii 

preach  for  the  Warden  of  Abbot’s,  but,  as  was 
rumoured  in  the  Close,  to  cement  an  alliance  with  a 
pretty  Mrs.  Auberon  of  that  town,  in  whose  company 
he  had  been  recently  thrown  at  various  great  houses. 
The  Minor  Canon  was  Highish  and  didn’t  especially 
admire  the  Bishop,  but  liked  Miss  Garboyle  much 
better,  whom  he  considered  more  of  a suitable  age  for 
matrimony.  From  him,  and  from  the  Encyclopedias 
(carefully  collated  and  supplemented  by  references  to 
the  Rev.  Cope  Pinnacle’s  “ History  of  Ecclesiastical 
Foundations  in  England”),  Mr.  Porker  had  derived 
all  the  information  which  appeared  in  his  article. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 


When  old  Mr.  Stiff  heard  that  young  Auberon  had 
resigned,  in  writing,  any  rights  he  might  have,  he 
almost  groaned. 

“ Dear,  dear ! A very  uncalled-for  measure,”  he 
declared,  “ most  ill-advised ! Who  can  have  advised 
him?  If  it  was  that  Irish  lawyer,  O’Riordan,  I’m 
sorry  for  his  clients.” 

All  the  same,  Mr.  Stiff  felt  a sort  of  warming  round 
the  cockles  of  his  old  heart,  and  never  spoke  slightingly 
of  “ that  headlong  boy  ” again.  He  was  honest  enough 
himself,  and,  though  he  had  a strong  professional  dis- 
approval of  signing  any  right,  or  chance  of  a right, 
away,  still,  under  his  shabby  waistcoat  there  was  some- 
thing not  merely  professional.  He  was  not,  himself, 
quite  a gentleman,  but  he  was  aware  that  many  gentle- 
men came  to  ask  him  how  they  might  do  things  which 
he  would  not  have  done,  and  he  understood  well 
enough  what  had  made  that  clear-faced  lad  sit  down 
and  write  off  to  renounce  any  claim  to  “ damages.” 
He  thought  Catholics  far  more  securely  bound  for  the 
wide-mouthed  haven  of  perdition  even  than  the 
worldly,  tepid,  Erastian  members  of  the  Establishment, 
but  he  liked  them  rather  better — Llanthamy  Catholics 
had  no  great  social  standing. 

On  that  Tuesday  evening  he  was  shambling,  rather 
heavily,  to  post  his  own  letters,  for  he  preferred  that  no 
unnecessary  persons  should  read  their  addresses  (not 
that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  to  undesirable 

325 


MONKSBRIDGE 


326 


[CH.  XLIII 


people),  when  his  foot  slipped,  and  he  nearly  tumbled. 
Llanthamy  (inferior  to  Monksbridge  in  everything) 
had  a clay  soil,  quite  unlike  our  Rentshire  gravel,  and 
on  “ soft  ” days  its  streets  were  apt  to  be  clammy  and 
slimy. 

“ Dear,  dear!  ” cried  Mr.  Stiff,  as  he  felt  his  para- 
lytic leg  going  from  under  him;  and  he  sprawled,  and 
flung  his  arms  out,  and  all  his  letters  slipped  from  his 
hand.  But  he  didn’t  come  down  after  all. 

“ Hold  up ! It’s  all  right,  Mr.  Stiff,”  a cheery 
young  voice  sounded  over  his  shoulder,  quite  close  to 
one  of  his  big  yellowish  ears ; and  a pair  of  very  strong 
young  arms  gripped  him  under  the  armpits,  and  set 
him  on  his  legs  again. 

“ I hope  you’ll  excuse  me  grabbing  you  like  that,” 
laughed  Perkin,  “ and  not  think  me  as  presumptuous 
as  the  Princess  of  Spain,  who  had  the  fellow  beheaded 
that  clutched  hold  of  her  to  prevent  her  tumbling  and 
breaking  her  leg.” 

“ Did  she,  though — the  baggage  ? ” cried  Mr.  Stiff, 
with  wonderful  presence  of  mind.  “ A Spanish 
princess,  eh?  Bad  place  that,  where  the  Inquisition 
comes  from.” 

Perkin  laughed  again,  and  the  old  man  gave  a 
grunting  chuckle,  as  the  lad  bent  down  to  gather  up  the 
letters.  Mr.  Stiff  could  not  have  stooped  like  that; 
what  Miss  Stiff  called  his  lower  chest  was  so  formed 
that  he  could  only  stoop  round  it,  so  to  speak,  and  it 
wasn’t  a swift  or  easy  process.  He  noticed,  with  ex- 
treme approval,  that  the  boy  picked  the  letters  up,  as 
they  had  fallen,  face-downwards,  and  so  returned  them 
to  their  owner ; it  would  have  been  so  natural  to  read 
the  addresses! 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XLIIl] 


327 


“Good  night,  Mr.  Stiff,”  says  Perkin,  lifting  his 
cap,  and  making  off. 

“ Good  night,  sir,  and  thank  you,”  said  the  old  man, 
looking  after  the  lad’s  straight,  slim  figure.  “ A poor 
Samaritan,”  he  thought  to  himself,  “ but  a pleasant, 
kind-hearted  lad,  and  comely.” 

Perhaps  that  other  Samaritan  was  quite  young  after 
all,  and  had  a pleasant  way  of  talking;  and  he  may 
have  been  comely.  There’s  no  Divine  law  necessarily 
connecting  ugliness  and  grimness  with  the  sort  of 
neighbourliness  that  was  held  up  for  our  example  in 
that  citizen  of  a despised  and  naughty  town. 

“ He  shouldn’t  have  signed  any  renunciation  what- 
ever,” the  old  lawyer  said  to  himself,  as  he  dropped  his 
letters  one  by  one  into  the  slit  of  the  post-office.  “ I 
couldn’t  have  advised  it.” 

But  as  he  jogged  home  (very  cautiously  now)  he 
did,  dimly,  realize  that  a young  lad  who  is  a gentleman 
and  isn’t  giving  that  up,  with  other  pleasant  things,  for 
conscience’  sake,  may  find  advice  somewhere  that  no 
attorney  could  give  him,  and  that  may  be  none  the 
worse  for  that.  Anyway,  he  did  not  join  in  any  real 
abuse  of  Perkin  any  more,  but  would  only  shake  his 
big,  pale  head  and  say,  “ 111  advised,  no  doubt,  through- 
out.” 

Sylvia  was  of  the  same  opinion,  but  she  only  said 
so  at  home. 

“ Everybody  seems  to  think,”  Mamma  observed,  that 
same  Tuesday  night,  “ that  Perkin  can  claim  very 
heavy  damages  for  his  invested  interests,  as  they  call 
them ; twelve  hundred  pounds  at  least ; even  Mr. 
Bloom,  I understand,  admits  four  years’  purchase.” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


328 


[CH.  XLIII 


“ No,  Mamma,”  I interposed.  “ All  Mr.  Bloom  said 
was  that  the  whole  value  of  the  scholarship  at  Balaam 
could  only  be  twelve  hundred  pounds — at  four  years’ 
purchase;  Miss  Belvoir  told  me.” 

“ Well,  that’s  what  I say,”  urged  Mamma. 

“ If,”  said  Sylvia,  “ Mr.  Bloom  admits  twelve 
hundred,  you  may  be  sure  it’s  more — that  Perkin 
might  get  more.” 

“ But,”  I said,  “ Perkin  has  resigned  every  possible 
claim.  He  wrote  to  the  Warden  last  night  and  said 
so.” 

“ Dear  Perkin ! ” cried  Mamma,  her  pretty  eyes 
glistening. 

But  Sylvia  had  much  finer  eyes,  and  they  only 
expressed  criticism. 

“ How  do  you  know  ? ” she  asked  coldly.  “ He  told 
you?  And  why  not  all  of  us?  His  whole  procedure 
has  been  bad,  headstrong,  wilful,  and  self-opinionated. 
He  should  have  consulted — us.  He  had  no  right  at  all 
to  throw  away  any  indemnity  (indemnification)  that 
might  be  legally  due  to  him  without  taking  our  advice. 
Before  signing  anything  he  should  have  consulted  his 
family.  Hampden  could  have  guided  him,  and  con- 
sulted legal  counsel  for  him.” 

“ Oh ! ” I said.  “ Hampden ! Is  he  likely  to  ask 
Hampden’s  advice  after  the  way  Hampden  treated 
him  on  Saturday  ? ” 

This  made  Sylvia  all  the  more  displeased  with 
Perkin,  because  she  was  seriously  displeased  with 
Hampden,  and  it  was  Perkin’s  fault. 

Hampden  had  not  been  near  us  since  Saturday. 
He  was  sulking.  And  that  very  morning  he  had  gone 
away.  A dog-cart  had  taken  him  to  the  station,  and 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XLIIl] 


329 


the  groom  had,  on  his  way  back,  brought  Sylvia  a note, 
as  follows: — 


“ Llanthamy  Castle,  Tuesday. 

“Dear  Sylvia, 

“ I have  to  go  to  London.  Inverchlory  tele- 
graphed yesterday  that  he  cannot  now  speak  at  the 
meeting.  You  can  guess  why  he  thinks  it  better  not  to 
come  down  just  at  present.  It  would  be  very  marked 
if  he  stayed  with  me  without  (as  he  intended)  seeing 
you  all,  and  he  can  hardly  wish  to  come  to  Cross  Hall 
just  yet.  You  know  how  strongly  he  takes  up  the 
Protestant  cause,  and  he  can  scarcely  wish  to  meet 
your  brother;  nor  can  I pretend  to  do  so  at  the  moment. 
But  Inverchlory  wrote  yesterday  (he  had  read  that 
highly  objectionable  article  in  the  Flag;  I hope  your 
brother’s  new  friends  had  no  hand  in  it;  it  would  be 
deplorable  taste),  I got  his  letter  at  7.30  a.m.  to-day; 
he  begs  me  to  come  to  town  and  take  my  seat  in  the 
Lords;  since  my  dear  father’s  death,  you  know,  Par- 
liament has  not  been  sitting;  he  suggests  that  he  (you 
know  that  he  is  Baron  Fennskip  in  the  English  peer- 
age) and  the  Duke  of  Clantuddlem  (who  sits  as 
Viscount  Houndsditch)  should  introduce  me.  It  is 
uncommonly  friendly  of  them  at  this  juncture,  for 
both  are  on  the  extreme  Protestant  side,  and  both  of 
great  position  and  weight;  the  Duke  is  High  Com- 
missioner for  the  Kirk  of  Scotland;  in  fact,  I may  say 
that  though  religion  and  politics  are,  perhaps,  not  nec- 
essarily connected,  my  own  leaning  is  to  the  Protestant 
side,  which,  after  all,  is  that  of  safety  and  loyalty.  So 
I am  going  up  now,  and  the  man  who  takes  me  to  the 
station  will  bring  this.  I wish  I could  have  seen  you 


330 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIII 

yesterday  or  on  Sunday,  but  my  mother  has  not  been 
well  (the  events  of  Saturday  affected  her  sadly),  and 
I dare  say  your  brother  would  not  regret  my  absence. 

“ Yours  ever, 

“ Monksbridge.” 

Sylvia  knew  perfectly  that  it  was  not  a good- 
tempered  letter,  and  that  her  betrothed  was  sulky. 
There  was  not  a word  of  entreaty  for  their  speedy 
marriage,  as  there  had  been  in  every  note  he  had  sent 
her  since  his  father’s  death,  and,  though  she  was  as  far 
as  possible  from  being  on  Perkin’s  side,  it  was  plain 
that  Lord  Monksbridge,  in  every  allusion  to  her 
brother’s  great  misconduct,  was  almost  scolding  her. 
She  did  not  believe  in  the  least  that  his  mother  had 
really  been  ill,  only  he  had  been  feeling  awkward  and 
cross,  and  had  not  tact  enough  to  come  and  see  her  as 
if  nothing  had  happened : nor  had  he  the  pluck  to 
write  plainly,  objecting  to  her  treatment  of  himself, 
so  he  abused  her  brother  sideways. 

All  this  annoyed  her  seriously : the  Bishop  was  not 
coming,  Lord  Inverchlory  was  not  coming,  thus  had 
Perkin’s  folly  and  misbehaviour  injuriously  affected 
his  mother’s  and  younger  sister’s  interests.  A little  red 
spot  appeared  on  her  cheeks  as  she  asked  herself, 
“ What  if  Hampden  himself  should  draw  back?  ” He 
must  know  her  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  the  very 
slightest  sign  of  any  such  desire  would  make  her  end 
the  engagement  herself.  Sylvia  in  her  own  way  was 
full  of  pride,  and  she  had  never  considered  him  as 
equal  to  her — most  certainly  she  would  not  marry  him 
if  he  wavered  in  his  sense  of  her  great  goodness  in 
becoming  his  wife.  I have  signally  failed  in  drawing 


MONKSBRIDGE 


331 


CH.  XLIIl] 

her  portrait  if  the  reader  thinks  of  her  as  a girl  deter- 
mined to  marry  a rich  young  lord  at  any  price.  And 
there  was  nothing  to  wound  her  heart  in  the  idea  of 
not  marrying  him,  for  she  cared  no  more  for  him  than 
for  any  other  man : she  never  would  care  for  any  man ; 
the  only  person  she  really  liked  much  was  her  mother 
— yet  to  have  to  break  off  her  marriage  after  so  long 
and  public  an  engagement  would  be  very  trying,  and, 
though  she  would  do  it  if  necessary,  her  anger  against 
Perkin  grew  very  deep  as  she  thought  of  it,  and  deeper 
still  as  she  thought  of  all  she  had  meant  to  do,  and 
could  have  done,  for  Hampden’s  family  and  her  own. 
She  had  nearly  succeeded,  she  believed,  in  those  great 
plans  of  public  usefulness,  after  patient  consideration 
and  hard,  though  willing,  work — and  now,  by  a boy’s 
hasty  folly,  failure  was  almost  threatening.  She  con- 
trived to  make  Perkin’s  home  very  unpleasant  for  him 
in  those  days.  All  the  same,  she  snubbed  old  Lady 
Llantwddwy,  who  came  to  call,  and  said  almost  as 
soon  as  she  had  sat  down — 

“ I hope  your  naughty  brother  is  not  in,  Marjory. 
Pm  the  weakest  creature!  and  if  he  clapped  a candle 
in  my  hand,  and  insisted  on  my  turning  Catholic,  I 
should  succumb!  ” Of  course  she  laughed  as  she  said 
this.  “ So,”  she  added,  “ he  has  renounced  his  claims 
to  legal  compensation — very  pretty  of  him,  I must  say 
— for  they  tell  me  he  might  have  caused  a deal  of 
annoyance,  if  he  had  done  as  that  wicked  Flag 
suggested.” 

“ There  could  never,”  said  Sylvia,  “ have  been  the 
least  fear  of  it  in  the  mind  of  any  one  who  knew  him. 
He  is  a bad  boy,  and  is  behaving  quite  outrageously, 
but  being  a Roman  Catholic  won’t  alter  his  being  an 


332 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIII 

Auberon.  He  would  think  no  more  of  money  than  any 
of  us;  and  it  only  shows  how  little  Monksbridge  un- 
derstands a gentleman’s  feelings  that  it  is  so  astonished 
at  his  behaving  like  one.” 

“ Don’t  eat  me,  my  dear,”  cried  the  old  Viscountess, 
quite  meekly : “ I only  meant  to  praise  him.” 

“ Oh,  dear  Lady  Llantwddwy,”  said  my  sister  with 
terrible  graciousness,  “ you’re  not  a Monksbridgian. 
There  are  islands  in  Monksbridge,  like  Littlepark  and 
Cross  Place.” 

“ And  Island  Court,”  suggested  her  ladyship,  whose 
mind  was  rather  literal  than  inclined  to  metaphor. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 


All  this  while,  the  reader  may  be  wondering  whether 
I had  sent  any  telegram  to  Lady  Hermione.  When  I 
returned  from  Miss  Belvoir’s,  on  that  fateful  Satur- 
day, I had  certainly  thought  of  doing  so : the  Bishop 
was  coming  and  Lord  Inverchlory  was  coming — but 
then  came  Perkin’s  announcement,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
mean  to  run  away  and  leave  him  in  the  midst  of  his 
great  unpopularity.  On  Sunday,  however,  I wrote 
and  told  Hermione  all  about  it,  ending  with  a bold- 
sounding, but  really  timorous,  suggestion.  I knew  she 
was  at  Severn  Court  again ; did  she  think  Lady  Severn 
would  invite  us  both,  Perkin  and  me,  to  come  there  ? 

On  Tuesday  morning  I received  her  reply:  which 
ran  thus — 


“ Severn  Court, 

“ Monday. 

“ Dear  Muggles, 

“ What  a beast  you’ll  say  I am ! Aunt 
Muriel  begs  you  to  come  here  if  you  will,  and  wanted 
to  write  herself;  but  I told  her  not  to.  And  Uncle 
Severn  wants  you  to  come;  and  of  course  I do.  But  I 
don’t  believe  you’d  come  now  without  Perkin,  and 
Perkin  is  a bad  boy.  You  know  they  take  e.ery  sort 
of  paper  here,  and  that  horrid  Flag  is  full  of  him 
to-day.  Neither  Uncle  Severn  nor  Aunt  Muriel  are 
bigoted,  but  they  are  very  churchy,  and  Mamma  is  just 
a little  Low  (church,  I mean) ; they’re  all  three  nerv- 

333 


334 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIV 

ous,  and  are  afraid  for  Briggy  and  me ! I’m  so  very 
religious,  you  know,  and  so  likely  to  join  a religion 
that  wouldn’t  be  easy  unless  I fasted  all  day  long,  and 
lay  on  a plank  all  night  (except  when  I had  to  get  up 
and  whip  myself  with  a — what  K.G.’s  wear).  Of 
course  you’ll  think  me  horrid,  laughing  like  this;  but 
seriously,  I know  they  are  nervous;  I don’t  often 
strike  up  fierce  friendships,  and  I did  with  you.  So 
did  Briggy,  and  they  know  it.  We  always  said  we 
were  all  for  Perkin,  and  it’s  become  a sort  of  little 
proverb  among  us  all.  And  now  he’s  going  to  be 
the  Pope,  and  Mamma  and  Aunt  Muriel — and  Uncle 
Severn  too,  in  a way — are  nervous;  if  you  and  Perkin 
were  here  together,  of  course  we  should  be,  all  four 
of  us,  as  thick  as  thieves,  and  he  would  twiddle  us 
three  round  his  finger.  I see  you  are  all  on  his  side, 
and  are  probably  in  a convent  by  now,  and  the  Ab- 
bess won’t  let  you  read  this,  so  I’ll  just  put  in  for  her 
(to  pay  her  out  for  reading  other  people’s  letters) 
that  I don’t  like  the  Catholic  religion  at  all,  and  would 
take  good  care  to  have  something  to  say  if  I had  to 
go  to  Confession.  All  the  same,  Mamma  wouldn’t 
trust  me  with  a new-blown  convert,  and  Aunt  Muriel 
wouldn’t  trust  Briggy,  especially  as  he’s  taken  Per- 
kin’s part  violently.  I abused  your  bad  brother  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  but  he  said  out  that  he  thought  him 
splendid,  and  asked  his  mother  whether  she  thought 
boys  of  eighteen  in  general  so  keen  about  religion 
that  they  would  give  up  all  they  had  in  the  world  for 
it.  I think  that  frightened  her  and  Mamma — and  even 
Uncle  Severn — more  than  anything.  Briggy  got  red, 
and  looked  very  handsome  and  honest,  and  I dare 
say  they  thought  that  the  moment  he  met  Perkin  he 


MONKSBRIDGE 


335 


CH.  XLIV] 

would  fly  into  his  arms  and  say,  ‘ Please,  I’m  another. 
Pray  hand  me  into  the  Catholic  Church  immediate.’ 
Oh!  Muggles,  can’t  you  see  why  I write  such  silly, 
flippant,  nasty  stuff?  I feel  such  a pig,  and  you’ll 
think  us  all  pigs — I should.  We  begged  you  to  come 
here,  and  we  say  we’ll  only  have  you  without  Perkin, 
and  I know  you’ll  not  come  without  him.  You’re 
a pig  if  you  do,  though  I hope  and  beg  you  will.  No, 
I don’t;  I don’t  believe  the  Bishop  or  Lord  I.  will 
bother  either  you  or  your  Mamma  this  little  while. 
Did  Perkin  and  you  plot  the  whole  thing?  But  I 
should  think  you  a perfect  S.  if  you  came  and 
left  him  all  alone  to  face  her,  and  her  Monksbridge, 
and  everything.  Tell  him  from  me  (not  his  lordship) 
that  I utterly  condemn  him  and  like  him  very  much. 
And,  dear  Muggles,  try  to  understand  how  ashamed 
I feel  of  us  all. 

“ Your  affectionate 

“ Glorum.” 

At  the  end  was  a little  postscript  from  Briggy. 

“ Tell  Perkin  I do  think  him  splendid.  Glorum 
won’t  let  me  see  what  she  has  written,  and  I’m  sure 
it’s  all  it  oughtn’t  to  be.  But  she  is  all  for  Perkin 
still,  and  is  dashing  about  abusing  us  all  to  our  faces 
and  threatening  to  become  an  abbess  next  week,  be- 
cause father  and  mother  don’t  think  it  would  be  quite 
the  best  thing  to  ask  him  here  yet.  You  see,  she’s 
only  eighteen  herself — and  I’m  only  nineteen  and  a 
bit — and  they  know  we  are  fond  of  you  both,  and — 
do  try  and  understand — father  and  mother  don’t  really 
blame  him  for  doing  what  he  thinks  right.  You  don’t 
know  how  good  they  are,  only  they  would  so  dis- 


MONICSBRIDGE 


336 


[CH.  XLIV 


like  me  or  Glorum  doing  the  same  sort  of  thing,  and 
we  never  come  across  fellows  (or  girls)  of  our  age 
who  think  much  of  religion  in  that  way  at  all,  and 
they  think  it  might  put  it  in  our  heads.  It’s  partly 
my  fault  (so  don’t  blame  father  and  mother,  or  Aunt 
Hester  entirely),  for  I flared  up  about  the  old  religion, 
and  said  Perkin  was  only  belonging  to  the  religion  all 
our  fine  forefathers  believed  in.  Post  is  just  leaving; 
I can’t  write  more.  But  do  give  my  love  to  him,  and 
say  how  I do  admire  him.  So  does  Glorum,  just  as 
much. 

“ Your  ever  affectionate 

“ Briggy.” 


“ Of  course,  I couldn’t  go  anywhere,”  Perkin  re- 
minded me,  when  I told  him  what  I had  proposed,  and 
how  my  proposal  had  been  a failure.  “ I am  being- 
instructed,  and  can’t  go  away  anywhere  till  it’s  over 
and  I am  received ” but  he  read  Hermione’s  let- 

ter and  Briggy’s  postscript,  and  he  didn’t  scold  me 
for  having  made  an  offer  of  his  company  at  Severn 
Court  and  been  refused. 

“ How  nice  they  are — all  of  them ! ” he  said,  when 
he  had  finished;  and  I saw  his  odd,  chocolate-brown 
eyes  shining.  “ I like  Briggy  best,  for  sticking  up  for 
his  father  and  mother  so.” 

“They’re  just  the  same,  Glorum  and  Briggy;  only 
she’s  a girl ” 

And  now,  I am  going  to  say  good-bye  to  you;  to 
you,  if  there  are  any  of  you,  who  have  stuck  to  me 
and  Perkin  all  this  while.  A long  farewell,  and  it 
will  take  a little  time. 


MONKSBRIDGE 


337 


CH.  XLIV] 

I read  a book  once,  some  years  ago,  that  ended  with 
a question  to  which  each  reader  might  give  the  answer 
he  liked  best.  / will  answer  some  of  the  questions  you 
may  want  to  put ; the  rest  I will  leave  you  to  answer 
as  you  choose. 

Instead,  then,  of  Finis  at  the  end  of  this  book  I 
shall  write  only  my  initials — M.  B.,  and  what  do  they 
stand  for?  Marjory  Bridgenorth?  No,  for  Briggy 
has  been  Lord  Severn  these  twenty  years,  and  I am 
the  only  member  of  my  family  whose  husband  or  wife 
has  no  title.  As  poor  Sylvia  used  to  remark,  quite 
patiently,  anybody  might  have  foreseen  that  Marjory 
“ would  only  marry  a gentleman,”  and  I did.  Though 
he  was  Sergeant-Surgeon  to  His  late  Majesty,  my  hus- 
band is  not  even  Sir  Hubert;  whereas  Sylvia’s,  for 
his  high  political  services,  became  Earl  of  Llanthamy 
of  Llanthamy  Castle,  in  1880,  and  Marquess  of  Monks- 
bridge  in  1901.  And  Perkin,  though  he  thought  but 
poorly  of  me,  once,  for  going  a Duke-ing — Perkin’s 
eldest  son  will  be  a peer,  and  his  wife  never  was  Mrs. 
Auberon;  she  signs  herself,  in  semi-state,  “Her- 
mione  ” ; in  full  state  “ Cressy,”  and  in  undress — so 
to  speak — “ Glorum.” 

She  never  became  an  abbess,  but  one  of  her  five 
daughters  is  a nun,  and  one  of  her  three  sons  is  a 
priest  in  the  slummiest  part  of  a northern  town  that 
looks  all  slums  from  the  train. 

There  is  no  Mrs.  Auberon.  But  our  dear  mother 
is  alive  and  hardly  looks  very  old. 

The  present  Lady  Inverchlory,  a good  deal 
younger  than  his  lordship,  was  a Miss  Massachusetts 
of  America;  but  when  they  are  down  in  Lincolnshire, 
where  she  attends  the  parish  church  (in  London  she 


MONKSBRIDGE 


338 


[CH.  XLIV 


is  a Christian  Scientist),  she  passes,  on  her  way 
through  the  chancel  to  the  great  family  pew,  still  un- 
profaned by  the  restorer,  a monument  inscribed  as 
Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Belisante,  wife  of  Ronald, 
tenth  Earl  of  Inverchlory,  (“first  wife”  thinks  the 
former  Miss  Massachusetts,  not  intolerantly),  daugh- 
ter and  heiress  of  Sir  Hamelyn  Beaufront,  of  Beau- 
site,  in  this  county,  fifth  baronet. 

There  is  no  Mrs.  Auberon.  Fate  herself  was  hardly 
a match  for  our  Sylvia,  and — well,  it  happened  in 
this  way:  As  the  time  of  her  marriage  drew  on,  my 
sister  wrote,  without  mentioning  the  fact  to  any  of 
us,  to  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster. 

“ The  Archbishop,”  said  she,  “ is  going  to  marry 
me  to  Lord  Monksbridge;  his  wife,  you  know,  was  a 
Drum,  of  Sir  Stapleton’s  family,  from  whom  my 
mother  inherited  this  dear  place:  and  the  Dean  of 
Battersea  (our  old  mutual  friend  the  Warden)  is  to 
assist  him — I do  not  think  a Bishop  should  assist  even 
an  Archbishop.  Nevertheless,  I would  fain  be  so 
bold  as  to  ask  a dear  friend,  most  highly  valued, 

to My  dear  lord,  how  can  I ask  my  poor 

brother  to  give  me  away?  You  know  the  sad,  sad 
religious  difference  that  divides  us.  He  might  be 
willing,  for  he  is  a loving  brother  (and  most  dutiful 
son),  but  I can  hardly  even  wish  to  ask  him.  It  would, 
as  I look  at  things,  be  scarcely  decent  to  invite  him 
to  stand  with  me  before  an  ” (“  Altar  ” she  had  writ- 
ten, but  changed  it  to  “ Communion  Table”)  “ from 
which,  alas!  he  has  severed  himself.  Would  it  be 
too  great  a presumption  to  hope  that  you,  my  dear 
lord,  would — you  know  we  have  no  father — stand  for 
that  one  day  in  a father’s  place,  and  place  my  hand 


MONKSBRIDGE 


339 


CH.  XLIVj 

in  my  future  husband’s?  Your  dear  daughter  I do 
not,  much  as  I have  always  wished  it,  know:  but,  if 
you  would  consent  to  what  I so  boldly  propose  (after 
all,  every  proposal  worth  making  involves  some  bold- 
ness !),  perhaps  you  would  tell  her  how  greatly  I should 
like  to  count  her  as  one  of  my  ten  bridesmaids  ” (one 
of  the  original  ten,  Lady  Rosamond  Montacute,  had 
just  been  announced  by  her  mother,  Lady  Stonehenge, 
as  developing  unmistakable  scarlatina). 

When  the  Bishop  read  Sylvia’s  letter  he  longed  to 
say  Yes,  but  was  not  at  once  sure  whether  he  dared 
say  anything  but  No.  In  vain  is  the  net  spread  in 
the  sight  of  any  bird,  unless  indeed  the  bird  likes  the 
look  of  it,  and  would  not  mind  being  inside.  The 
Bishop  would  like,  but  there  was  Carry.  Still,  that 
odious  article  in  the  Flag  had  led  to  nothing  much 
(the  Bishop  didn’t  particularly  object  to  the  “ cutting 
down  ” Mrs.  FitzSimon  had  once  so  fearfully  dreaded; 
nor,  indeed,  did  she  now  she  was  getting  ready  to  move 
to  the  Deanery,  and  understood  that  Mr.  Porker  was 
likely  to  be  the  new  Warden — seven  hundred  a year 
would  be  far  too  much  for  him).  Many  papers  had 
descanted  on  Abbot’s  School,  but  not  a single  one 
had  said  a word  as  to  young  Auberon’s  prospective 
father-in-law. 

“ My  lord,”  cried  his  lordship’s  domestic  chaplain, 
hurrying  in,  almost  without  knocking,  “ my  lord,  a 
dreadful  thing  has  happened.  Dr.  Flebly,  the  Rector 
of  Billincoot,  has  gone  off — gone  off  with ” 

“Good  gracious,  Tumbler,  gone  off!  with  whom?  ” 

“ Oh,  my  lord,  No ! ” cried  the  chaplain,  quite  blush- 
ing. “ With  apoplexy — dead,  my  lord ! In  his  gig.” 

“ Dear,  dear ! You  shock  me ! With  apoplexy ” 


340 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIV 

and  the  Bishop  rose,  and  shook  himself,  and  stretched 
his  neck  a little,  as  though  to  prove  it  was  longer  than 
it  looked.  “ A bachelor,  though : it  is  harder  on  a 
beneficed  clergyman  when  there  is  a wife — and  chil- 
dren. He  had  only  a sister.” 

“Yes,  my  lord:  a sister,”  said  Mr.  Tumbler,  with 
a meek  sigh — he  had  two,  who  lived  with  him. 

“ Dear  me ! It  is  very  sad,”  observed  the  Bishop, 
not  thinking  much  of  the  two  Miss  Tumblers.  He 
was  thinking,  in  fact,  of  a daughter,  and  he  evi- 
dently rather  wished  to  be  alone.  Poor  Mr.  Tumbler 
— trying  not  to  think  of  Billincoot  Rectory — went 
away,  and  the  Bishop  presently  betook  himself  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  he  found  Miss  Garboyle  making 
a “ kissiboo,”  out  of  red  and  white  duster-cloth,  for 
some  little  African  boy  she  would  never  see. 

“ Carry,”  he  said,  with  a solemn  resignation  that 
was  almost  cheerful,  “ Dr.  Flebly,  the  Rector  of  Bil- 
lincoot (a  Rural  Dean),  has  been  taken.  It  is  very 
sad.  He  was  quite  well  this  morning,  and  now  he 
is  gone.  Of  apoplexy;  in  his  gig.  On  his  way,  as  I 
make  no  doubt,  to  discharge  some  Ruridecanal  func- 
tion— a very  exemplary  clergyman.” 

Miss  Garboyle,  who  had  only  seen  Dr.  Flebly  once, 
was  duly  shocked. 

“ But  still,  papa,  if  he  was  a good  man,  and  pre- 
pared, and  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty — I don’t  un- 
derstand much  about  Rural  Deans.” 

“ Quite  so.  Of  course  not.  I felt  the  same,”  said 
the  Bishop,  rather  absent-mindedly.  “ But,  Carry,  the 
living  is  in  my  gift:  it  is  my  turn  to  present — the 
patronage  is  alternately  in  the  hands  of  the  Bishop 
and  of  the  Dean  and  Chapter:  it  is  my  turn ” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


341 


CH.  XLIV] 

“Oh,  papa!  I hope  you’re  not  thinking  of  Mr. 
Tumbler — he  may  be  an  excellent  chaplain,  but  he’s 
not  up  to  a Rural  Dean:  he  snuffles  so — he  can’t 
always  have  a cold ” 

Dr.  Garboyle  was  not,  in  general,  disposed  to  seek 
advice  from  his  daughter:  but  on  this  occasion  he 
showed  no  displeasure. 

“ The  Rural  Deanship,”  he  explained  (mildly),  “ is 
not  involved  in  the  Rectory.  But  I wasn’t  thinking  of 
Tumbler  ...  I had  a thought — what  do  you  think  of 
Mr.  Singer  ?'  ” 

Miss  Garboyle  really  blushed,  and  her  father  noted 
the  circumstance  with  inward  pleasure. 

“ An  excellent  clergyman,”  remarked  the  Bishop, 
“ and  popular  in  the  diocese  ” (Miss  Garboyle  stitched 
eagerly  at  the  kissiboo,  and  almost  wondered  her  papa 
had  not  thought  Mr.  Singer  of  too  upward  a tend- 
ency), “and  his  father  was  Archdeacon.  I like 
clergymen  of  clerical  families.  Of  course  he’s  young- 
ish, but  so  was  poor  Flebly;  he’s  been  Rector  many 
years,  and  was  not  old;  about  my  own  time  of  life. 
It  makes  one  think ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Miss  Garboyle.  “ But  if  he  was  young 
when  he  got  it — and  Mr.  Singer  is  not  much  under 
forty.” 

“ No,  my  dear,  no.  A very  suitable  age.”  And 
there  came  almost  a jocosity,  certainly  a complacence, 
into  her  papa’s  tone  as  he  added,  “ in  every  way.” 

Miss  Garboyle  did,  undoubtedly,  blush,  and  the 
Bishop  observed  it  with  mild  triumph. 

“ The  Rural  Deanship,”  he  went  on,  “ is  not  in- 
volved in  the  Rectory  of  Billincoot.  But  the  Rector  of 
Billincoot  has  usually  been  a personage  in  the  Arch- 


342 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIV 

deanconry.  Singer  is  popular  (so  was  his  father), 
and  the  clergy  will  like  the  appointment.  It  will  show, 
too,  that  I am  not  averse  to  recognising  the  claims  of 
what  is  not  (precisely)  my  own  party  in  the  diocese. 

Singer  is  Higher  than  we  are ” 

“ Papa,  he’s  not  in  the  least  a Puseyite.” 

“ Of  course,  of  course ! And  I’m  sure,”  said  the 
Bishop,  “ he  won’t  become  one.” 

“ Certainly  not,”  agreed  Miss  Garboyle,  as  one  mak- 
ing a promise  to  that  effect. 

“ He,”  said  her  papa,  affectionately,  “ shall  have  it.” 
“ My  dear,”  he  added,  in  a lower  tone,  “ I’m  a 
watchful  and  loving  father”  (she  felt  the  appeal,  and 
was  conscious  that  it  behoved  her  to  be  a loving,  and, 
perhaps,  not  too  watchful,  daughter),  “and  I do  this 
— for  public  motives  of  utility,  of  course,  but  to  please 
you  too.” 

“ Thank  you,  papa.”  And  Carry  almost  wished  the 
kissiboo  was  a pocket-handkerchief  without  a needle 
in  it. 

“ And,  Carry,”  he  went  on,  “ there  are  lighter  mat- 
ters to  tell  you  of.  The  Duchess  of  Cowchester  asks 
me  to  go  and  stay  there  on  the  third  of  next  month  to 
confirm  young  Lord  Calfhampton,  and  I shall  take 
you.  Cowpark  is  worth  seeing — one  of  the  ancestral 
homes  of  England.  I couldn’t  suggest  Tumbler.  But 
I might  take  Singer  as  Chaplain  pro  tem.  I really 
think  I might.” 

Carry  thought  he  might,  but  didn’t  say  so.  Then 
the  Bishop  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  be  a brides- 
maid, with  nine  others,  all  Lady  Somebodies  (he 
forgot  me,  as  people  always  have  done  throughout  my 
insignificant  life). 


MONKSBRIDGE 


CH.  XLIV] 


343 


“ It  may  be,”  he  added,  with  undisguised  jocosity, 
“ your  last  chance.” 

Carry  blushed  again,  and  even  laughed  a little. 

Then  her  papa  told  her  whose  wedding  it  was,  and 
she  understood  everything  perfectly;  the  giving  away 
of  the  bride  hardly  surprised  her — but  to  be  a brides- 
maid (after  going  to  the  Duchess  on  the  third)  with 
nine  others,  all  Lady  Cynthias  and  Lady  Arabellas, 
especially  when  it  would  be  her  last  chance,  after  all 
it  was  worth  something.  And  besides,  out  at  Bil- 
lincoot,  what  would  it  matter  to  her  who  poured  out 
tea  at  Rood  Palace?  Especially  as  Mrs.  Auberon 
had  no  title — Carry  would  have  found  it  much  harder 
to  bear  cheerfully  if  some  lady  of  obviously  higher 
social  standing  than  her  own  had  succeeded  her. 

“Papa,”  she  said  (in  parenthesis),  “wasn’t  Arch- 
deacon Singer  Rector  of  Billincoot  ? ” 

“ No,  my  dear;  Vicar  of  Kiddlemere.  But  the  Arch- 
deaconry is  not  attached  to  any  benefice.  Archdeacon 
Thumper  is  very  old.” 

“ Well,  yes — I don’t  mind  being  bridesmaid,”  said 
Carry,  emerging  from  her  parenthesis,  as  her  papa 
went  into  it.  “ Shall  you  write  and  accept,  or  must 
I?” 

“ We  have  both  to  accept,”  replied  the  Bishop;  and 
Miss  Garboyle  felt  that  it  was  a settled  thing.  So 
did  Miss  Belvoir  as  ( from  the  organ  gallery,  with  Mr. 
Porker  beside  her)  she  watched  the  Bishop  of  Low- 
minster  giving  away  Miss  Auberon. 

“ How  truly  paternal  his  manner  is ! ” she  whis- 
pered ; and  Mr.  Porker — who  was  not  always  quick — 
said — 


“ Quite  so ! An  amiable  man,  I fancy.” 


344 


MONKSBRIDGE 


[CH.  XLIV 

“Tut,  tut!  He’s  a deal  more  taken  up  by  the 
bride’s  mother  in  her  lavender  silk  than  by  the  bride, 
for  all  her  white  satin  and  Mechlin  and  orange-blos- 
soms ! Bishops  are  like  other  people,  and  there’s  noth- 
ing like  one  wedding  for  bringing  on  another.  He’d 
better  too ; or  that  Perkin  will  be  perverting  his  mother, 
now  Sylvia  won’t  be  on  the  spot  to  look  after  her. 
Marjory  would  be  no  good  at  all,  and  she  has  always 
been  all  on  her  brother’s  side.  There!  She’s  Lady 
Monksbridge  now.” 

“ And  you  think,”  said  Mr.  Porker,  “ you  really 
think  the  Bishop ” 

“ It’s  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face.”  Porker 
put  his  hand  up,  and  felt  it;  it  ivas  plain — but  he  was 
Warden  elect  for  all  that. 

“ And  you  think  one  wedding  leads  to — others  ? ” 
he  whispered. 

“ It  ought  to,”  Miss  Belvoir  declared  firmly.  “ It’s 
an  old  saying,  and  proverbs  reflect  great  Human 
Truths.” 

Mr.  Porker  thought  there  might  be  something  in  it 
(his  mind  had  wandered  from  the  Bishop),  and  after 
all  she  was  a Male  Belvoir,  whereas  the  Porkers  of 
Pigginwhistle  were  only  yeoman  farmers.  When  Mrs. 
FitzSimon  knew,  she  was  quite  glad  the  Wardenship 
had  been  cut  down. 

“ They’ll  have  nine  hundred  a year  and  her  furni- 
ture,” she  said,  “ and  for  him  that  will  be  really  too 
much.” 

As  for  Miss  Belvoir,  she  congratulated  herself  that 
she  would  not  have  to  move  to  a house.  “ I never  did 
live  in  one,”  she  boasted,  “ first  in  a Priory,  then  in  a 
Gate,  and  now  in  a Warden’s  Lodge.” 


MONKSBRIDGE 


345 


CH.  XLIV] 

The  Baroness  came  back  to  Cross  Place;  she  and 
Mr.  Bloom  were  Mamma’s  tenants  for  many  years. 
They  died  within  six  months  of  each  other;  and  ten 
weeks  later  the  Bishop  of  Lowminster  died  too;  then 
Mamma  went  back  to  Cross  Place,  and  Hubert  and 
I gave  up  our  London  home  and  went  to  live  with 
her.  Archdeacon  Singer  and  Carry  often  stay  with 
us,  and  get  on  much  better  with  us,  and  with  Perkin 
and  Hermione,  though  we  are  all  Catholics,  than  they 
ever  did  with  Sylvia.  Sylvia’s  eldest  son  is  very  like 
Perkin,  and  his  mother  never  counted  it  to  him  for 
righteousness,  though  she  liked  to  -talk  of  the  tradi- 
tional Auberon  face;  but  her  only  daughter  (named 
after  her  august  Godmother)  is  Sylvia’s  living  image, 
and  is  Princess  Hermann  Gluck  von  und  zu  Geldstein, 
who  has  opened  more  bazaars  than  any  woman  of  her 
age  in  London. 

The  present  Marchioness  of  Monksbridge,  forty- 
nine  years  younger  than  her  husband,  is  no  relation 
of  mine,  and  was  born  in  Chicago — not  of  a “ media- 
tized” family;  and  Lady  Inverchlory,  being  a Bos- 
tonian, won’t  look  at  her. 


GRACECHURCH 


BY  JOHN  AYSCOUGH 

Crown  8vo,  pp.  x -(-  319.  $ 1.7  5 net  (postage  11  cents) 

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of  its  childhood  and  writes  with  memory,  with  love  and  with 
interpretation.  . . /’ — Baltimore  Sun. 


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